


The Case Of The (Definitely Not Haunted) Styles Mansion

by BriaMaria



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: 1950s but doesn't feel historical, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Comeplay, Comfort, First Time, Fluff, M/M, Mentions of ghosts, Murder Mystery, NANCY DREW AU, Panic Attack, Smut, Strangers to Lovers, a little violence, banter ahem flirting, but not graphic, mistrust to love, private detective!louis, scientist!marcel, some time-period typical internalized homophobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-01
Updated: 2018-02-01
Packaged: 2019-03-12 03:00:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 40,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13538265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BriaMaria/pseuds/BriaMaria
Summary: “So there’s a sense of humor buried beneath all that condescension, huh?” Louis said when he’d stopped laughing.“It’s not condescension, it’s intelligence. I understand you might not be able to recognize it yourself,” Marcel said, then slapped a hand over his mouth. “Oh god, I’m sorry.”Louis stepped closer, his eyes on Marcel’s face. “For being an asshat?”“For being rude,” Marcel said, from beneath his palm.Louis shifted a half-step closer until he was at the very edge of Marcel’s personal space. It felt like he was nudging at it, asking to be let in. Marcel flushed hot for no reason.“Lucky for you it takes quite a lot to actually insult me,” Louis said taking one step closer. Too close. Too close.Marcel met Louis’ eyes. Those blue eyes that reminded Marcel of poetry instead of science, lyrics instead of formulas. They were so pretty he wanted to drown in them.---Or the Nancy Drew AU where Marcel is a man of logic, Louis is a private detective who believes in ghosts, and the Styles Mansion is definitely, absolutely, positively *not* haunted.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [flamboyantdorks](https://archiveofourown.org/users/flamboyantdorks/gifts).



> Ahhh! So you seemed to be excited the most for this prompt, so I wanted to try it out, even though I've never read Nancy Drew (*hides * sorry!) It turned into a little Nancy, a little Scooby-Doo, a little Clue, and I hope you like it anyway!! xoxox
> 
> Nancy Drew AU: Harry comes from a wealthy family that is remodeling their mansion to put it up for sale, but they can't make any progress because strange things keep happening, Fires pop up, doors slam shut, stairs become completely ruined, etc. Louis is a mystery solver that the Styles call in, but Harry doesn't like Louis at first because he doesn't believe in ghosts or anything supernatural, he's a science man, I get it! Anyway, there are numerous suspects and Louis needs Harry's help because he's smart, he knows these people, and well, he's very cute!
> 
> TW: This is a murder mystery and thus has a little bit of violence mentioned (bodies, blood and guns). Nothing is gory at all (it's a cozy mystery, not a thriller) but if you're sensitive to any of that, this might not be for you. There's a little bit of internalized homophobia I wanted to tag, but it's the '50s, and it really doesn't play a major role in the fic at all.

**CHAPTER ONE  
** _May 22, 1951  
_ _River Heights, New Jersey_

 

Marcel Styles of the River Heights Styles was a man of science. He believed in data. He believed in evidence. He believed in the natural laws of the universe.

And he most certainly _did not_ believe in ghosts.

Unlike his mother.

“Marcey, you have to be nice to Mr. Tomlinson,” Anne said as she slid scrambled eggs onto Marcel’s plate.

“I most certainly do not have to be nice to that... that… fraud. That... that... charlatan.” Marcel’s hands shook as he pushed his glasses back up to the bridge of his nose.

Mr. Tomlinson. The name alone conjured an image of a slimy conman, ready to take advantage of two scared and desperate women.

Anger was not an emotion Marcel was overly familiar with. He was a classic people-pleaser who sweat through both his shirt and his sweater vest when faced with actual confrontation. But he couldn’t deny the darker emotions that turned his blood hot and sticky at the thought of this Louis Tomlinson person. This "private detective" who "hunted ghosts" but probably just scammed people out of money.   

“Marcel Edward Styles.” Anne slapped the back of his head.

“Ouch, hey!” Marcel reached to rub at the spot.

“You will be nice to a guest in our home, do you hear me?”

Marcel crumpled beneath her withering stare, dropping his eyes to the sleek white plate before him. He fiddled with his fork, tapping it against the porcelain. “I’ll be civil.”

There was a moment of silence, and then Anne smacked him again. “Nice. Not civil. Do you hear me young man?”

She didn’t wait for an answer before she turned back to the stove.

“I’m 28,” he mumbled, petulant. If Anne had heard, it may have earned him another talking to, but someone was looking out for him today, because at that moment Gemma sailed into the room, covering the bit of backtalk. His sister swooned into the chair across from him, in a manner that would be better fit for a stage.

“Thank goodness Mr. Tomlinson is arriving today,” Gemma said and, quite literally, clutched the string of pearls at her neck. Marcel rolled his eyes.

“Did something else happen last night, dear?” Anne asked as she sliced a grapefruit.

“Did something happen?” Gemma wailed the question as if incredulous it even had to be asked. “Of course something happened. Every night this week, hasn’t it?”

Marcel had enough. That anger that he usually kept so carefully tucked away howled like a beast in his chest, its frothy jaws snapping as it strained at the chains. “There is no such thing as ghosts.”

Only when the two women dropped silent, unnaturally so, did Marcel realize how loud he’d been. He may have even accompanied the statement with a slap of a hand against the wooden table top.

Gemma straightened in her chair, her eyes wide and focused on his face. He noticed then that there were bruises smudged beneath her lashes, and guilt pulsed through him in waves. None of them had gotten much sleep.

“Marcey,” she said softly, the dramatics all but stripped from her voice. “I know you don’t like that we’re bringing Mr. Tomlinson here to investigate. But even you have to admit there’s something strange going on.”

The hard line of his mouth wavered, and he dropped his eyes again. He hated this. His palm was slick against the metal of his fork, and his foot tapped out an uneven rhythm against the black and white checkered tiles of the floor.

Tugging at his collar, which was suddenly way too tight around his neck, he sighed. Gemma was right, to an extent at least. There was no denying it. They had a problem, and he didn’t know how to fix it.

The whole thing started two weeks ago after their monthly family meeting.

“I think it’s time we sold the house,” Anne had said from behind the big, mahogany desk that took up a fair amount of space in their library.

Gemma had gasped and leaped to her feet. “Mama no! How could you?”

The discussion hadn’t improved from there. Gemma had cried and Anne had yelled, and Marcel had tried to make himself as small as possible on the sofa. He loved the house--he loved its secret passageways and its blustery corridors and the history baked into the very bones of the walls. He loved the laboratory he’d been able to set up in the basement, and the library that was stocked full of everything from ancient leather-bound texts to dimestore Westerns and poetry.

But he also knew what Gemma wouldn’t consider: there were memories here that haunted Anne, ones that she felt she couldn’t escape.

So, like he so often did during the wild clashes between his sister and his mother, he kept his mouth shut.   

If only it had ended there.

Three days later they’d had their first _Incident_ , as Anne called them.

Anne had been to town, meeting with contractors and designers. The plan was to fix up some of the more problematic rooms in the mansion and get it on the market as soon as possible. She had just walked into the entryway of the house with Mr. Niall Horan--the new real estate agent who had just moved to River Heights a few months prior--when a guttural scream pierced the quiet morning air.

Marcel hadn’t even stopped to think before he was talking the stairs two at a time. His lungs had heaved against the exertion, but he’d ignored the tightness in his chest as he ran down the long hallway toward Gemma’s room.

He’d crashed through the door, Anne and Niall on his heels to find Gemma slumped on her bed. Her eyes had been closed, her body limp. There had been no one hovering over her with a knife, no one slipping out the window to shimmy down the drainpipe.

The adrenaline coursing through his bloodstream had turned his thoughts slow, and there had been a static kind of buzzing in his ears. But then he’d heard Anne cry out behind him.

Swiveling, ready for an attack, he’d been confused at first when all she’d done was point at the wall.

Then he’d seen the blood.

It was a dark, almost black spot against the pale pink paper, and it had seemed to seep through wall itself forming a pattern that his brain had tried to turn into a picture.

The band around his chest had tightened, and his knees had gone wobbly, but he’d managed to stay upright.

After the police had left, he’d locked himself in the bathroom, trembling and pale, his skin clammy with sweat, and had sat in the corner just trying to breathe properly.

Despite plenty of reassurance from the police, they said there was nothing that could actually be done. They’d looked around, found no sign of a break-in or source for the blood, and had somewhat regretfully informed the Styles family that they could call if anything else happened.

While the first incident had been the most dramatic, it had not been the only one. It was followed by smaller events: doors slamming unexpectedly, a fire stoked in a room that had been unused for years, lights flickering. A particularly disturbing incident had been when Anne had gone to bed only to find her best dress outfit, complete with jewelry and stockings and heels, laid out on the bed as if it was sleeping in her spot.

Marcel was fairly certain that had been Anne’s final straw.

The very next day she’d contacted Louis Tomlinson, ghost hunter. That’s not what he called himself. No, it said something like Private Investigator next to his name on his business cards. But he was known for specializing in the paranormal.

It was an itch at the base of Marcel’s spine, one he couldn’t reach. He was a man of science. And this person who bilked hard-working people out of good money was going to be staying with them for at least a week.

The thing was, if Louis Tomlinson wasn't a fraud, that meant he actually did believe in ghosts. And _that,_ quite honestly,was beyond Marcel's understanding.

The doorbell rang, interrupting his thoughts just as he was about to get agitated again. Anne shot him a look, pointing at him as she pulled the apron from her waist. “Be nice, young man.”

Gemma followed their mother out of the kitchen leaving him to his sulk. If Marcel was a different kind of person he would have thrown his delicate tea cup against the wall for the satisfaction of it shattering.

Instead, he took it to the sink to wash it carefully, along with the pots and pans his mother had used for breakfast.

***

Liam Payne whistled, low and soft, beside Louis Tomlinson.

“Moneybags, then,” the assistant said in that succinct way of his. The two of them stood at the bottom of the stairs leading up to the Styles mansion. The Styles of River Heights’ mansion, to be exact.  

Louis had expected nothing less than the grandeur that laid before him in the form of a gorgeous, three-floor Victorian that sat upon River Heights’ tallest hill like a queen lording over her peasants.

Even Louis had heard of the River Heights Styles and he couldn’t be further removed from them, what with his tiny little office, which took up the bottom floor of a building that was just on the wrong side of the invisible line that divided Trenton, N.J., between seedy and seedier. His apartment, about three blocks away and even deeper into no man’s land, wasn’t much to boast about either. But they were both his. And so was his reputation for being one of the best PIs around.

He didn’t say anything to Liam as he started up the stairs, but the boy stayed close to him, ever the eager puppy.

“Do you think there’re ghosts this time?” Liam asked as Louis dropped his bag to the porch. Louis’ hands were sweaty for some inexplicable reason and he wanted them dry when Anne Styles greeted him.

Louis shot Liam a quick grin because he loved the hope his assistant always had that this time -- _this time --_ would finally be the one where they had a paranormal experience.

“Always a chance, isn’t there?” Louis said like he always did and clapped Liam on the shoulder. The boy’s smile dimmed a little because he knew what that meant.

_No way in hell._

It had been a long time since Louis had been optimistic about finding something other than a drafty corridor or an overactive imagination. But though he didn’t like to admit it out loud, there was also the tiniest part of him that thought _maybe._ Just like Liam.

Louis took a deep breath and rang the bell.

The door swung open moments later to reveal two beautiful women, one middle-aged and one who was probably in her late twenties. The older was Anne Styles of the River Heights Styles, whom he'd met before. The younger had to be her daughter -- the resemblance was almost startling. Both had dark hair that was pinned back and wide eyes.

“Mr. Tomlinson,” Anne breathed his name like an answered prayer. It wasn’t unusual, as he often came into people’s lives at times of great stress. It always made him squirm a little, though.

“Please, ma’am, call me Louis,” he said. When she’d first come to see him in that tiny little office back in Trenton he’d thought maybe she’d been lost. But the look on her face had been unmistakable. She'd needed his help.

“And you must call me Anne,” she said now, clasping both his hands in hers. Warm. Lovely. That had been his impression of her from the start and it was only reinforced now. There was also a sadness, though, in the corners of her eyes. “This is my daughter Gemma.”

“Pleasure,” Louis murmured as he stepped into the entryway of the mansion. Stained glass windows in the stairwell turned the light that poured into the hallway rainbow; simple pieces of furniture lined the walls; and the single piece of extravagant decoration was a Chinese vase that stood near the door. The Styles were old money--they didn’t flaunt it.

“Are you tired, Louis? We can show you to your room?”

Louis almost grinned at that. It was only eight in the morning. “I’d love to actually get started,” he said. “But perhaps we can drop our bags?”

“Of course.” Anne turned to lead the way up the stairs just off to the left of the foyer.

“You have a son, too?” Louis asked, mostly to make conversation as he and Liam trailed Anne to the second floor. Her steps faltered for a moment with Louis’ question. Which was ...  _huh._

Anne hadn't talked much about her son when she'd hired Louis, not beyond a brief mention that he lived in the house. But, this was a reaction he couldn't ignore. Perhaps the case wouldn't take a whole week to solve. Maybe the son had something to do with the mischief in the house.

“Marcel,” Anne said now, and her hostess mask was back in place.

“Is he around today?” Louis prodded gently. It would be interesting to meet this Marcel.

Anne’s breathing hitched a little as she stopped outside a closed door. Her hand was on the knob but she didn’t move to enter. “He is busy most days in his laboratory. I’ve asked him to stay out of your way.”

Which...was sort of an answer. Anne’s body was held tight and she was clearly uncomfortable with the subject. He blinked and she smiled, far too wide to be natural.

“Louis you’re in here,” Anne said, bright and cheerful as she pushed open the door. “And Mr. Payne…”

“Oh, Liam please, ma’am…”

“Liam. You’re one room down,” Anne finished, some of the mania slipping from her face when she glanced at Liam. No one could be strange around the human puppy dog that was Liam Payne. It was fifty percent of the reason Louis kept him on staff.

“Thank you, Anne,” Louis said. He turned back to her once he’d stepped into his room. “And you have no problem with us looking around, correct? I’ll want to get the lay of the place.”

Anne’s hands were clutched in front of her, her knuckles white where they gripped each other. “Of course. That’s why you’re here, right? If you need me I’ll be in the library. It’s the third door down from the entryway.”

“Thank you,” Louis said, and then gently shut the door in her face. He had no intention of finding her for the rest of the morning. He liked to get his own feel for what they were working with early on.

His room was spacious and light, the windows overlooking a beautifully manicured back garden that bled into a forest beyond the edges. The bedspread had tiny pink flowers on it and a porcelain doll that was missing one eye perched on the massive dresser by the lavatory. The whole place had a weird air of melancholy to it and Louis honest to God wouldn’t be surprised if there was actually a ghost in residence.

It just probably wasn’t the thing that was creating all the drama.

He quickly unpacked, shoving trousers and pants into drawers and hanging up his coat jackets in the far-too-clean closet. 

Just as he stowed his bag under the four-poster bed that took up the majority of the room, there was a knock on the closed door between what he guessed was his and Liam’s room.

Crossing to the door quickly, he opened it to find Liam standing on the other side, his fist still raised.

“Hiya boss.” Liam smiled at him. “What’s the first order of business, then?”

They would need to go to each room where the Incidents (as Anne called them) happened. They would need to get a general feel for the house, too. But first things first. “We need to find out what the fuck is up with Marcel Styles.”


	2. Chapter 2

The laboratory was Marcel’s happy place. People, well, they were confusing, loud, hard to understand and maneuver around sometimes. But experiments, they made sense.

Facts, logic, rational thinking. This was the world where he was most comfortable.

Anne had despaired of it when he’d been younger. The first year he’d come back to stay at the house after college, she’d dragged him to every ball and soiree she attended in New York. The Styles had a place to maintain in society, after all. They’d gone to masquerades and garden lunches and musicales put on to highlight the instrumental skills of the city’s wealthiest daughters.

Marcel had loathed every minute of it. Too often his tongue would tie, or his palms would sweat or his chest would tighten when put on the spot. Small talk was currency with these people and in that world, Marcel was broke.

He’d found solace in the basement of the old Victorian, though, with his bunsen burners and his flasks and his charts and notes. No one bothered him down here, no one needed anything from him down here. No one expected him to be something he just … _wasn’t_ … down here.

Until, of course, Louis Tomlinson.

Marcel had just finished writing a particularly challenging formula on his standing blackboard when there was a knock on the door.

Anne, Gemma and the household staff all knew not to bother him when he was in his laboratory. He wiped the chalk dust on his brown tweed slacks as he stared at the steps leading down to his sanctuary.

Somehow he’d managed to avoid meeting Louis Tomlinson when he’d arrived. But the raspy voice he’d heard as he skirted the foyer on his way toward the basement had done something to his belly. He didn’t want to think about what that something was, and he really, really didn’t want to think about Louis Tomlinson.

However, he couldn’t fight the basic politeness that Anne had hammered into him while growing up.

“Come in,” he called, hoping that the permission would get swallowed by the shadows of the basement. Marcel tugged on his collar. He hated this. He hated that this man was in his house, that he was going to have interact with him, that he couldn’t fight his nature and not be at least civil to him.

“Hello?” That raspy voice called down into what must seem like pure darkness.

“Can I help you?” Marcel asked. Maybe Louis was just lost.

“Marcel?”

He didn’t want to hear his name on this man’s tongue. _Charlatan. Fraud._ Marcel couldn’t shake the words from his head.

When he didn’t respond, Louis started down the stairs, which was exactly the opposite of what Marcel had wanted to happen. “No you don’t…” he trailed off. It was useless. The man was going to be in Marcel’s space in mere moments. Marcel wiped his palms on his trousers once more, trying to control his breathing. He could handle this. He was a grown adult.

“Oh, hello.” The voice came first, that ridiculously lovely voice. But then Louis stepped from the darkness and Marcel got his first glimpse of this slimy conman.

Except. Except. Everything within him stilled. This was no slimy conman. Not by looks, at least.

No, instead of the slicked-back greaser Marcel had been picturing, there was a fine-boned man with golden skin and a soft smile. He was dressed in loose dove-gray trousers and a white button down that tucked in at his waist, emphasizing the curve there. Suspenders and an attractive fedora (tipped to the side just right in a jaunty, careless way Marcel could never achieve) finished off the look. And beneath the brim of the hat, there was a hint of sharp cheekbones and blue eyes.

Marcel’s mouth went dry, his pulse fluttered far too fast, and his breathing turned a little ragged. Annoyance. That's what this was. Pure irritation and annoyance.

Louis stepped a bit closer, tugging the fedora off only to drop it carelessly on one of Marcel’s work benches. Then he started walking around, his fingers trailing over Marcel’s beakers, his palm gliding along his desk. He was touching things. So many things. Marcel could almost feel the smudges, the fingerprints, on his own body.

“Can you…” Marcel started, blinking fast. “Can you stop? Please?”

The plea came out broken and Marcel hated himself in that moment. He wanted to be the type to tell this person off, to demand he leave Marcel’s space, to spill out all the accusations that burrowed into Marcel’s brain. _Charlatan. Fraud._

But he was just Marcel. All he was left with was a polite whimper of a request. _Don’t touch my things, please. They’re mine. They’re what make me feel safe._

Thank god he didn’t actually say any of that, though. Small favors and all.

Louis paused anyway, his sharp blue eyes focused on Marcel’s face. Marcel knew he was blushing under the scrutiny so he turned slightly to try to deflect.

“Stop what?” Louis asked as he grabbed a paperweight from Marcel’s desk. It was cut, rose-colored glass and had been a gift from one of Marcel’s favorite professors. Louis tossed it in the air, careless and distracted, and Marcel could barely stop himself from rushing over, grabbing it from those thoughtless hands.

Marcel breathed deep and counted to ten. “How can I help you, Mr. Tomlinson?” he asked instead of answering Louis’ question. The man knew what he’d meant, and was deliberately provoking him into a reaction. Marcel refused to give it to him.

_Slap._ The paperweight landed hard against Louis’ palm. “I wanted to get your take on the situation here,” Louis said. _Slap._ It dropped into his other hand. Marcel tugged at his collar again, and then pushed his glasses up to the bridge of his nose. Heat crept up his neck and his shoulder blades tingled.

He didn’t understand why he was so uncomfortable.

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“So you can find your ghosts,” Marcel said, the sarcasm dripping from his words. If Anne had been there, she would have thwacked him upside the head. But she wasn’t. And he was a grown adult in his own home. This man was a charlatan, Marcel was allowed to be a little resentful.

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Still, he had to press back an apology before it tripped off his tongue, unbidden.

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Louis didn’t flinch from Marcel's tone, though, just smirked and then turned to very gently place the paperweight back on Marcel’s desk. Something loosened within Marcel, a tiny bit.

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“You don’t believe in ghosts I take it.” Louis was moving again. Touching things again. Marcel’s chair, his notebooks, the blackboard. Each step brought him closer to Marcel.

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He fought the urge to flee or to crumple. A quick image of a panther stalking a scared little piglet popped into his mind before he shook it out. He was no piglet.

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He straightened, pulling at the hem of his sweater vest, puffing out his chest. Fake it until you make it. That’s what Gemma always told him. (Not that it had ever worked, mind you.)

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“No intelligent man does,” Marcel said.

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Instead of shrinking back from the barb, Louis’ grin widened.

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“Is that so?

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“Yes,” Marcel held his ground. “Paranormal phenomena are a refuge for the weak-minded for things that small brains can’t explain.”

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“Oh-hoh,” Louis’ eyes flashed with humor instead of anger. He was laughing at Marcel. “So you, Marcel Styles, have everything in the world figured out now do you?”

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He blinked. “Well, no.”

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For the first time Louis looked surprised, his eyebrows flicking up beneath his soft hair for a moment. “He admits to not being all knowing. Well that’s a step.”

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Marcel leaned forward, slightly. “Are you… are you talking to the ghosts now?”

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Louis’ face went blank for a heartbeat, and Marcel held his breath. Most people didn’t get his humor, but despite his annoyance with the man, the joke had just been there, waiting for Marcel to make it. In the next breath, Louis laughed. It changed his entire face. Although he’d been beautiful before (though Marcel hesitated to use the descriptor for a man, it really was the most accurate. And he strove for accuracy above all else) it was now stunning.

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Louis’ eyes crinkled up until they were almost non-existent, his head tipped back, his compact body shook slightly beneath the weight of his amusement. It was an experience to watch.

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“So there’s a sense of humor buried beneath all that condescension, huh?” Louis said when he’d stopped laughing.

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Marcel stiffened and remembered who they were and what Louis was doing there. Camaraderie had no place with frauds who were trying to take advantage of scared clients. Anger turned his tongue far sharper than it had ever been before.

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“It’s not condescension, it’s intelligence. I understand you might not be able to recognize it yourself,” Marcel said. Then he slapped a hand over his mouth, groaning and immediately regretful. “Oh god, I’m sorry.”

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“For being an asshat?” Louis stepped closer, his eyes on Marcel’s face. There was a crease between his browns like he was trying to solve some riddle. Marcel had a sinking feeling he was that riddle.

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“For being rude,” Marcel said, beneath his palm, unwilling to trust himself around this man. He didn’t like Louis or this situation, but being mean was not in his nature. He wasn’t sure why he’d started now.

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Louis shifted a half-step closer until he was at the very edge of Marcel’s personal space. It felt like he was nudging at it, asking to be let in. Marcel flushed hot for no reason.

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“Lucky for you it takes quite a lot to actually insult me,” Louis said taking one step closer. _Too close. Too close._

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Marcel met Louis’ eyes. Those blue eyes that reminded Marcel of poetry instead of science, lyrics instead of formulas. They were so pretty he wanted to drown in them.  

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All of a sudden, there wasn’t enough oxygen in the room.

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Black spots popped in his vision and he realized he was wheezing a little bit. Enough for Louis to finally notice. Mortification flamed in Marcel’s cheeks as he dropped down to a crouch.

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Louis’ hand was on his back immediately, the man’s warm body leaning into his. “Breathe, sweetheart, breathe.” He was rubbing circles on Marcel’s back.

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The problem was (Marcel realized in a small, rational part of his brain) that everything was escalating. Usually if he felt triggered into an attack, he could stop it before it gained momentum. But this one had been fast and vicious, an avalanche that was cascading down the mountain devouring everything in its past.

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And Louis’ hands on his body weren’t helping at all.

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He lifted damp, desperate eyes to meet Louis’, silently pleading for help.

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“Fuck,” Louis murmured quietly looking around. There was a bit of panic in the way the man’s lips pressed together.

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Then Louis was ripping open his own shirt, tugging them both down until they were sat on the cold concrete of the basement floor. “Here, here.” Louis brought Marcel’s hand to his nearly naked chest (again, not helping) and then pressed their palms together against his heartbeat.

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It was fast beneath his hand, but it was there, it was something. _Ba-bump. Ba-bump. Ba-bump._ Marcel’s thoughts slowed just a little bit to try to catch the steady rhythm. The beat of it filled all the cavernous spaces in his lungs with air again. _Ba-bump._ This time when he met Louis’ eyes, they didn’t tug him under water, but brought him to the surface.

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Marcel wasn’t sure how long they sat there but it was longer than the few seconds it should have taken him to calm down. Louis didn’t seem to mind, though. He just sat, legs tangled on the floor with Marcel’s, and kept the steady pressure against Marcel’s hand on his chest.

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When he no longer felt like he was going to die, Marcel licked at his lips. “I was mean to you.”

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Louis let out a little puff of air that was more disbelief than humor. “Are you alright?”

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Marcel shoved at his glasses with his free hand, his body unwilling to break the contact with Louis. Just a few more seconds, please. “I’m sorry.”

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He ducked his head beneath Louis' scrutiny. Never before had so many conflicting emotions at once ricocheted within his body. It was what had overwhelmed him. That and the fact that for the span of the space between breaths he’d desperately wanted to know what it would be like to be kissed by this man.

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Viciously pushing the thought away before it could send him spiralling again, he reluctantly tugged his hand back. The warmth of Louis’ chest lingered on Marcel’s fingertips.  

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“Don’t try to um...don’t try to stand up yet, alright?” Louis said as Marcel scooted back.

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Marcel nodded once, unable to meet Louis’ eyes. He wanted to curl up in his bed and cry for hours. He wanted to forget the way Louis’ hands had settled on his back. He wanted to erase the memory of that raspy voice calling him sweetheart.

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“Listen.” Louis shifted away from Marcel, his hands held up like he was soothing a wild animal. “Here’s the thing. I get that you don’t like me. You think I’m a …”

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“Fraud,” Marcel whispered when Louis let the sentence trail off.

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He tipped his head. “Fraud. Huh. Thought you were going to say something worse there.”

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Marcel smiled, a tiny lift of the corners of his mouth. “Charlatan.”

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“Well that sounds almost fancy,” Louis said, a teasing lilt to his voice. Marcel didn’t understand how he was so unflappable. Except that he probably got this a lot. And despite some of the mean things that had flown out of his own mouth today, Marcel was on the whole much nicer than the average person. All of a sudden a flash of sympathy shot through him for what Louis must face.

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He stamped it out immediately.

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“Alright, so you think I’m a charlatan,” Louis said. “You’re a man of science, cleary. Don’t believe in ghosts and all that.”

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Marcel shook his head, but didn’t say anything further, scared of what would come out.

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Louis seemed to realize Marcel was at least trying. He went to place a hand on Marcel’s knee but (thank goodness) stopped mid-air and let it fall back to his side instead. “You have to admit something strange is going on, though. Yes?”

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That was...of course there was something going on. There had been blood on the walls.

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“No need to call me an idiot again,” Louis laughed. Marcel blushed. “It’s alright. Thick skin remember?”

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Marcel nodded. His tongue was heavy in his mouth and he was glad Louis didn’t seem to actually expect him to contribute verbally to this conversation.

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“So, here’s the deal. I don’t get paid unless I solve this case,” Louis said, and that took Marcel by surprise. He hadn’t known that detail. “Whether it be ghost or...something a little more on this spectral plane of existence. I do intend to figure it out.”

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“How?” Marcel whispered, his arms wrapped around his knees, feeling very small and wrong all of a sudden.

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Louis smirked. “I’m the best Private Dick in Trenton, Styles. Give me a little credit.”

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***

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Marcel Styles had not been what Louis was expecting. At all.

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Louis had gotten some weird vibes from Anne about her son, but now it made sense. Marcel didn’t like the idea of Louis being hired, and he wasn’t going to hide that fact.

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So. Not a sociopath playing with the fears of his mother and sister. Anne had probably just been worried that Marcel was going to be rude. Which was not an unfounded fear, apparently.

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He watched Marcel now as his blush deepened at the Private Dick innuendo.

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No. Not what he’d been expecting at all.

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Marcel was clearly the odd man out in the Styles Family. Louis’d thought he’d find someone posh, slick, fast-talking and arrogant, yes, but with a rich pedigree that excused bad behavior. He’d been expecting impeccable fashion, a strong jaw, and a crushing handshake that tried to establish dominance through broken fingers.

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Instead he got … Marcel. It wasn’t that the man _wasn’t_ arrogant. Hell, he even had a strong jaw. But there was no pretension, no smoothness. Marcel was all awkward, pointy elbows and tight bowties and chunky sweater vests and ill-fitting trousers that did nothing for the shapely thighs that Louis could tell lurked beneath.

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It was hard to imagine him fitting in at ritzy society parties. He seemed much more at home in this makeshift lab that was eccentric if Louis was being kind.

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But there was something intriguing about Marcel anyway, despite those thick glasses that nearly obscured the green of his eyes.

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At first, Louis had wanted to take a swing at the condescending prick. In his line of business he was used to it. Hell, as a PI it was practically in the job description. As a PI who made it known he was willing to take on paranormal cases, it was strange if he didn’t get at least one asshole trying to challenge him. He’d learned to deal with it (hint: humor tended to piss them off more than a well-reasoned debate or a nicely landed punch), but it was still obnoxious.

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So, he’d been all but ready to write off Marcel Styles as a strange but harmless impediment to his case (or even a lovely distraction. The man did have a very pretty mouth and a surprisingly lithe body beneath his mismatched clothing) when something had flipped.

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As they sat quiet on the floor, both still panting a bit as if they’d actually exerted themselves, Louis tried to think back on when the change had occurred.

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Louis had been trying to throw him off, get a reaction. Marcel’s eyes had tracked his every move, his fingers twitching at the hem of his sweater anytime Louis touched something for too long. Are you causing mischief? Louis had wanted to ask, getting closer to him with each step.

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There had been a moment (a quick blink and you’d miss it moment) where Louis had moved so that the tips of his shoes almost brushed Marcel’s and the man’s gaze had dipped to Louis’ mouth. When his eyes snapped back up, there had been panic in them. And that was… interesting.

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Now wasn’t the time to push though, not with Marcel curled up next to him looking delightfully dishevelled, his hair coming un-gelled, a light sheen of sweat along his temples.

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Louis shifted away before he did something completely asinine like push one of the newly loose curls back in line with the others.

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“No talk of ghosts,” Marcel mumbled into his knees. “And I still don’t want you here. For the record.”

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“I’m wounded, Marcel,” Louis slapped a hand to his chest dramatically. Then pushed to his feet, brushing off his trousers. Once standing, he reached down to pull Marcel up, and held onto his hand for a few seconds longer than necessary. It was large and warm and kind of lovely, though a bit damp.

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When Louis finally dropped his own palm back to his side, he looked up to find Marcel’s eyes locked on his chest, the one that was now only covered by a thin, threadbare undershirt. Louis didn’t move until Marcel looked away, pink-cheeked and frowning.

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Then Louis slowly re-buttoned and re-tucked his shirt.

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This was interesting.

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“Hey I have a question,” Louis said, stepping back to break some of the tension that crackled in the air between them. He wondered if Marcel realized what was going on. Had that been what had changed? That moment of recognition? “What did ghosts ever do to you to make you hate them so much?”

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The pure indignation on Marcel’s face sent Louis into a fit of laughter as he headed toward the stairs.

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“Don’t make this so easy, sweetheart,” Louis called over his shoulder to Marcel who was left standing in the middle of his lab, mouth agape, checks flushed, hair mused, shirt untucked and looking very, very, very fuckable.

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Louis smiled as he shut the door behind himself, feeling Marcel’s eyes on him until the very last moment.

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Maybe this case wouldn’t be a total bust after all.

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	3. Chapter 3

On the way to dinner, Marcel caught sight of himself in the mirror that hung along the hallway.

He stopped, turned, assessed. Marcel had never given much thought to what he looks like. There was never any real reason, beyond looking put together enough not to embarrass his family.

He liked dressing nicely, and had a particular fondness for his collection of bow-ties. Tonight’s selection was a deep emerald with tiny gold dragons on it that he wore on the rare occasion he was feeling whimsical. Gemma told him it brought out the color of his eyes. Marcel didn’t dwell on the reason he’d picked it for tonight.

The summer light was low in the hallway, casting shadows along his face. He thought maybe it was average, perfectly symmetrical as it was, with his nostrils being a little on the large side, and his lips being a little on the full side.

A few girls in school had tried to talk to him, so he thought maybe it was alright to other people, too. True, some people had also made fun of him, relentlessly for how he looked. Mostly the jocks. But he thought that was maybe because of his sweater vests and trousers and the way teachers had liked him, more than because of his base level of attractiveness.

Running a hand over his slicked back hair, he fussed at imaginary loose strands, fingertips gliding over his shellacked quiff. He froze when he realized what he was doing, then swiveled away from the mirror, avoiding his own eyes in the glass. Something pulled tight in his belly, in his lungs, as he slowly made his way toward the dining room.

Even while still in the hallway, Marcel could hear Louis’ raspy voice. Marcel paused in the shadows, just outside the doorway, that uncomfortable fluttering only getting worse. His rational side told him it was anger and mistrust making him react to the man. But there was also a whisper lurking in the dark recesses of his mind that couldn’t resist questioning that logic.

The picture of Louis, laughing and bright in Marcel’s dusty lab that morning had replayed in his head on a loop. When Marcel had tried to finish off that equation he’d been working on, he saw the curve of Louis’ shoulders, hunched over in amusement. When he’d tried to read the latest Scientific Times, he heard the wind-chime giggles. When he’d tried to clean up the non-existent mess on his work bench, he saw the crinkles by Louis’ eyes.

Marcel tugged at his collar and then stepped into the light.

Three pairs of eyes snapped to him, and he ducked a bit to try to hide the pink flush that was likely riding along the ridges of his cheeks. His fingers caught in the hem of his sweater vest as he made his way toward the table.

“You’re late Marcey,” Anne said lightly, and he scrunched his nose feeling like a child both from the scolding and his silly nickname. His eyes lifted and met Louis’. They held for only a split second before Marcel looked away, but the tightness was there still, in his chest. He concentrated on keeping his breathing steady so as not to have a repeat of that morning.

Just thinking of it caused warmth to spark in his fingertips, and spread up through his palms. Louis’ skin against his. No. That’s not...he shouldn’t be thinking about that.

“Sorry, mom,” Marcel said under his breath as he slid onto his chair. He looked up again and saw Louis’ mouthing something that looked suspiciously like _Marcey_. Gosh darn it.

“We were just filling Louis and Liam in on all the...Incidents,” Anne said as she passed Marcel the bowl of spaghetti that was resting by her elbow.

That was when Marcel realized there was someone else at the table besides his family and Louis. Next to Gemma was a man Marcel hadn't yet met. He had deep brown eyes, dark hair and strong features. Most people would probably call him handsome.

Marcel’s gaze bounced between the man and Louis, who looked on the verge of laughing at Marcel again.

He tugged at his collar.

“I don’t think we’ve been introduced,” the man said, smiling easily and standing just a bit to hold out his palm. “I’m Liam Payne.”

“Another ghost hunter?” Marcel mumbled but manners dictated that he shake his hand.

“Marcey,” Anne warned, but Louis just chuckled.

“Marcel has a thing about ghosts,” Louis said, clapping Liam on the shoulder. His hand rested there a beat too long. Not that Marcel was noticing or anything.

“I do not have a _thing_ about ghosts because they don’t exist,” Marcel said stiffly. Why did Louis make him feel like he was stepping on cracks and missing jokes? Why was he suddenly the odd man out for not believing in the ridiculous notion of the supernatural? He hated this, he hated it.

The crinkles were back next to Louis’ eyes. “I told you not to make it so easy.”

Marcel straightened but didn’t look away. “Make what so easy, exactly?”

“Riling you up.” Louis grinned, an unsaid sweetheart seeming to linger on his lips. That thing, that live wire that had pulled taut earlier, sparked and fluttered and everything went hot and itchy. Marcel’s face was on fire, and he could only imagine how red his cheeks were.

There was an odd silence that followed, Marcel not quick enough to verbally parry with Louis, and the rest of the table seemingly taken aback by the exchange. Louis was reveling in it, not taking his eyes off Marcel’s face.

“Erm.” It was Liam who finally broke through the awkwardness. “So. The events seem to have started about the time you announced you were selling the house.”

Marcel finally tore his gaze away from Louis’ face to look at Liam again. “Yes. And the first incident occurred when we brought the realtor up to the house.”

“Niall Horan,” Louis said, and the mockery that had lingered in the soft lines of his face when he’d been teasing Marcel were gone. He leaned forward, his forearms resting against the soft lace of the tablecloth. Marcel's eyes snagged on the delicate cut of his wrists.

“He’s new to town,” Anne said. “But a friend of mine knew him when he was working in the City and recommended him. You don’t think...surely he’s not involved?”

Louis rubbed his thumb over his bottom lip and Marcel swallowed hard, his mouth suddenly too dry. He looked at Liam instead, who he found watching him back. Marcel blinked, and Liam smiled, sure and easy.

“Not necessarily,” Louis said. And right. They’d been talking about Mr. Horan. “Just getting the facts at the moment.”

“Facts? Your familiar with the term then?” Marcel said, his tongue betraying him once more. Just because he was the most uncomfortable he’d ever been in his life (which was saying a lot since he moved through the world mostly uncomfortable) that was no excuse for this...meanness. He slapped his palm over his mouth as Anne hit his shoulder. “Marcel.”

Louis just smiled through, unruffled.

Shame pulsed through him, sticky and unpleasant. “I apologize, that was uncalled for.”

Something like understanding lit in Louis’ eyes, and Marcel didn’t want to think about what the man could realize about him. “S’alright,” Louis said, his tone light. “Actually you could help me out? I’ll need to go into town tomorrow, meet some people. You could give me cover.”

That would entail spending the day with Louis. Next to him, where he could feel the warmth of his body and hear that rasp in his voice when he was amused. Marcel tugged at his collar and realized it was becoming a terribly obvious habit.

“I swear, I’ll not talk about ghosts the entire time,” Louis held up his palms when Marcel remained quiet.

“Go on Marcey,” Gemma chimed in. “You could say Louis is a school friend. People will be less suspicious that way.”

This was not going to go well. “I’m a terrible liar,” he warned all of them.

Louis’ face lit with triumph. “Don’t worry. I’m good enough for the both of us.”

Marcel groaned. “That’s...that’s not reassuring.”

***

Louis wasn’t sure what woke him up--the slamming door or the screams. They seemed to blend together into some miasma of noise that his tired brain sluggishly tried and failed to comprehend.

Where even was he?

“Boss,” Liam’s voice was an urgent plea in the darkness. That’s right. The Styles Mansion. Ghosts. Marcel.

He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes as he sat up. “What happened?”

“Don’t know, you should come out here, though,” Liam said, still just a blob in the shadows.

“Get the equipment?” Louis part asked, part directed as he climbed out of his comfy four-poster. Ghosts really had no respect for a good sleep.

“Brought it out with me,” Liam answered, holding up the bag.

“Good man.” Louis clapped him on the shoulder as he passed him.

By the time he made it into the hallway all three Styles family members were huddled around the closest light sconce.

“Louis, thank goodness,” Gemma cried out when she saw him. She clutched her peach bathrobe, knuckles white against the fabric. She looked about three seconds away from fainting.

His eyes flicked past her, though, and landed on Marcel. Which. Had probably been a bad idea.

The man’s hair was soft, stripped clean of the gel. The front of it fell, gentle and with a hint of curl, across his forehead. He was still wearing those god-awful glasses, but they were starting to grow on Louis, especially the way he blinked owlishly beneath them.

But what really did Louis in was that Marcel was wearing pale rose-pink pajamas. The way the light hit the fabric created a silhouette beneath of long limbs, a narrow waist, soft hips. Louis licked at suddenly dry lips and tried to tug his gaze away from where it wanted to linger in all the gorgeous lines of Marcel’s body.

“Liam.” Louis voice was rough with a trace of lust he thought he could play off as sleep-worn. “Bag please.”

“Oh for goodness sake,” Marcel muttered crossing his arms over his chest. And there was the condescending prick. It didn’t make him less attractive, not really, but it let Louis get a little bit of control over himself. Marcel all cuddly and warm and flushed was not good for his concentration. Marcel as a prickly hedgehog he could handle.

Louis and the rest of their little group ignored Marcel, as Louis pulled the electronic equipment out of the bag. “Someone fill me in.”

“My door started slamming, open and shut,” Gemma gasped out, leaning in close so that her nose almost brushed Louis’ cheek where he crouched over the box. “I screamed for Mama and we ran out into the hallway to find...to find… THAT.”

She pointed with a dramatic flourish to the wallpaper that had been slashed by a jagged knife. The tattered pieces hung from the wall, sulking toward the floor but held in place by thin strips that had avoided the blade. The word "leave" was written in thick, dark black ink beside the tear

“It wasn’t a ghost,” Marcel said.

“Right, very helpful you are,” Louis said, letting the sarcasm drip from his lips.

“I’m just...I’m just...saying,” Marcel trailed off as Louis brushed by him, their shoulders bumping.

Louis smirked. “Oh, a quick one aren’t you?”

Marcel blushed under the dim hallway light and Louis looked away again. Flustered Marcel made him want to just rumple him up and then wrap him in blankets. None of this would do.

He turned his attention to the wall, making sure not to touch any of the paper. Then he held the sensory equipment up. Liam hovered at his shoulder, a notepad clutched in one hand, a pencil in the other as they watched the steady green light on top of the box.

It blinked, nonplussed. Louis stepped sideways, keeping the sensor directed at the wall. Nothing. Nada. Zip. He did a thorough sweep to be sure, but he could feel the disappointment radiating off of Liam in waves, an echo to his own. He hadn’t exactly expected anything, but one could dream.

“Well, Einstein, it looks like you were right,” Louis said, turning so he could carefully pack the expensive equipment away again.

“Wha-what?” Marcel stuttered.

“No ghosts,” Louis straightened, his hands on his hips. He looked at each one of the Styles, landing on Marcel last. “Just your normal, run-of-the-mill asshole.”


	4. Chapter 4

Marcel tugged his sweater on as he and Louis left the mansion. The morning was brisk but not freezing. Perfect cardigan weather.

He’d thought Louis had shot him a look when he’d pulled it from the peg, but he couldn’t tell if it was appreciative or judgmental. It was probably best not to think about Louis looking at him at all.

Especially after last night.

Last night. Last night. When Louis had stumbled into the hallway still bearing a crease from his pillow, his gorgeous eyes hooded from sleep. The whisper of his lashes against those sharp cheekbones had turned Marcel’s tongue thick and useless in his mouth.

By the time Marcel realized Louis was wearing pajamas that pulled oh-so tight around plump thighs, and nipped in at a slim waist, he’d all but lost every thought in his head. His chest had tightened again, with that constricted feeling he’d had in the lab right before his panic attack. To stop the on-coming spiral, he’d ripped his eyes off the outline of … of something he’d been able to see beneath Louis’ pajama pants and stared hard at the floor counting backward from one thousand.

It was when Louis had pulled out some ridiculous looking equipment that Marcel had been able to regain use of his brain.

“So any theories, Einstein?” Louis asked now, his hands shoved deep in his dove-gray trousers. They had deep blue stripes, different than yesterday's. Marcel wondered if Louis knew how good his behind looked in that color and had bought multiple pairs. Marcel pressed his lips together, not sure why he was thinking about Louis’ behind.

“What do you mean,” Marcel managed, his feet catching over nothing. He tripped down the path a little bit before Louis reached out and steadied him with a firm hand. His arm burned at the touch and he ripped it away so that he didn’t lean into it.

Louis’ fingers dropped back down to his side and neither of them acknowledged the moment to Marcel’s everlasting gratitude. They continued down toward the town for a beat in silence.

Then Louis cleared his throat. “On who is trying to scare you all.”

Marcel glanced at him. Louis’ face was tilted down, so that the sunlight caught the caramel threads in his soft brown hair. His expression was shuttered, thoughtful, his thin lips pursed.

“Is that what you think is happening?” Marcel asked, and then tripped a bit again because he couldn’t look away from the shimmer along Louis’ cheeks. It defied all laws of physics.

“Think so, yeah.” Louis hummed a bit. Marcel enjoyed the way he talked like a song, the words dipping and swinging to some melody only Louis could hear. Pretty. Like him.

No. Not like Louis. Louis wasn’t pretty. Boys weren’t pretty.

“That… that makes sense,” Marcel said, and Louis finally looked over at him. Their eyes met, danced away, then Marcel’s flitted back. Louis was smirking at the ground.

“You don’t actually know me well enough to sound surprised that I’m making sense,” Louis said, humor tilting the words so they were softer than they could be. Should be. Marcel was being an ass.

Louis wasn’t charlatan, he wasn’t a fraud. As much as Marcel feared being taken in by some smooth talking con man, he couldn’t quite forget the feeling of Louis’ hands on his back during the panic attack, or the brief spark of hope he’d seen in his eyes last night when he’d done his thing to the torn up wall.

He wasn’t trying to fleece the Styles women out of money. And though Louis may believe in ghosts Marcel knew he shouldn’t hold that against him (even though ghosts absolutely did not exist).

The apology sat on his tongue, but he was too awkward to force it out. It seemed he was in zero control of his mouth these days. Instead what came out was: “So you mean those who know you well often tell you you’re not making sense?”

Marcel just barely stopped his hand from coming up to slap over his face.

But Louis just laughed, low and gentle, like he always did when Marcel insulted him. “Yes, often.”

“I’m sorry,” Marcel finally said stiffly. They were both staring at the path, their shoes kicking loose pebbles as dust rose around their ankles. “I don’t know why I’m so rude to you.”

Louis nudged his shoulder. “Bring out the best in you don’t I?”

“The worst,” Marcel whispered, physically unable to stop himself from being a twat.

“Irony, sweetheart,” Louis laughed and it felt a little mocking. Marcel deserved it. His cheeks flushed at both that and the endearment. “Anyway, it’s just a bit of banter, isn’t it?”

Marcel had never had this with anyone. This back and forth...this… he hesitated, his mind stumbling over the word. But it was there. Blaring at him like an equation he’d been trying to solve.

Flirting. This was flirting.

He tugged at his collar and tripped. His chest was tight and Louis’ hands were on him again.

“You have giraffe legs, Marcey,” Louis said, and the embarrassment of the nickname pulled Marcel back from the ledge.

This wasn’t flirting. It was just two intelligent men talking. One of whom happened to be quick, clever, funny. The other of whom was him.

“Well at least I would be able to outrun you if a lion was chasing us,” Marcel shot back, trying not to picture those thick thighs stretching and pulling tight beneath silken skin.

“What?” Louis actually stopped this time, turning to Marcel. His eyes were crinkled.

Marcel blinked. “Cause...giraffes. In Africa. Lions.” He waved his hands around. “And you’re short.”

“Holy hell,” Louis’ mouth had parted, and he stared at Marcel like he was a foreign being. Then the smile was back, quick and easy. “See, banter, Marcey. Just go a little lighter on the insults. You’ll get the hang of it. I have faith in you.”

Flirting, his traitorous mind supplied. Not banter, flirting. He swallowed hard around the tight ball of terror that formed in his throat. “I don’t know who did it.”

Louis blinked at the abrupt topic shift but then took it in stride, like he seemed to do everything. It was an enviable trait, especially to Marcel who panicked at the mere suggestion of disorder or conflict or uncertainty.

Marcel followed Louis as he started walking again. The town was in view now. The bright facades of Main Street, which were always a cheery welcome, were practically salvation this morning. Being alone with Louis was proving to be very dangerous to his state of mind.

“So we agree this all started when you lot decided to sell your mansion,” Louis said, shoving his hands back in his pockets. His hips swayed with each step, the gray fabric caressing the swell of his behind. Marcel skipped a bit so he was walking even with him, his fingers tangling in the hem of his cardigan.

“Yes,” Marcel nodded, nudging his glasses up from where they’d slipped down his nose.

“So who has an interest in your house? Niall Horan,” Louis continued without waiting for Marcel to jump in. “But he’s selling it. So, not a lot of incentive to scare you lot.”

Marcel nodded, agreeing with the logic. “I don’t … I don’t think anyone in town wants to scare us, though.”

Louis hummed and slid him a glance from the side. “So you’re saying it could be ghosts.”

Marcel fish-mouthed for a moment, all the arguments he wanted to make crawling up his throat, begging for a voice. But there was a barely controlled smile lurking at the corner of Louis’ lips and Marcel realized he was being teased.

_Flirting._

He skittered away from the idea once more, and pushed at Louis shoulder. “I do have a sense of humor you know.” He sniffed, and pushed his glasses up again. He really did need new frames. Maybe ones that weren’t so heavy, maybe ones that didn’t obscure half his face like Gemma was always telling him.

“I saw the barest hint of it I think,” Louis said as the stepped onto the sidewalk that led into town. “Alright, so no immediate enemies come to mind. Tell me about the town dynamics instead.”

They passed the diner, brushing by an older lady who was coming out. “Good morning, Mrs. Grimshaw,” Marcel nodded.

She squinted at him. “Marcel Styles. Why haven’t you come ‘round for roast?”

“Will do soon,” Marcel smiled to cover the awkwardness that sparked in his belly. For some reason Nick Grimshaw had been avoiding him for several weeks, but he didn’t want Mrs. Grimshaw to worry.

Louis watched her toddle away. “What’s wrong with you?” He asked, even though he wasn’t looking at Marcel. They’d started walking once more.

“Do you...do you want a list?” Marcel asked. “How much time do you have?”

“Ah, the elusive humor is back,” Louis said, then looked over at him. “You’re all...tight.”

Marcel sputtered and then swallowed his tongue and then dragged in a deep breath to try to combat the way his chest had lurched at that. “Pardon?”

There was actually a pink flush along Louis’ cheekbones, and Marcel thought it might have been the first time he’d seen Louis embarrassed. “I mean your...your shoulders and stuff. Not… yeah. When you were talking to her…”

And oh. Oh. This was somewhat delightful. Marcel was so used to being the one that couldn’t get his mouth to behave, it was actually fun to see someone else struggle. To see funny, clever, quick Louis struggle.

The gloating only lasted a second, though, because what he’d actually said was sinking in. Louis had been able to read him like a book. They’d only had a few interactions and Louis could already sense when Marcel was tense. That seemed...dangerous. Uncomfortable. Vulnerable.

He cleared his throat. “I am… um… friends with her son, Nicholas,” Marcel said.

“Am or were?” Louis slowed, now fully watching Marcel’s face. He tried to keep it schooled, as he tugged at his collar.

“Am?”

“Why is it a question?” Louis was in full on investigator mode. It was...interesting. Intriguing if he was being honest with himself, which he usually liked to be.

The humor was completely gone from Louis’ face. His eyes were sharp and assessing, his jaw clenched, his lips pressed into a thin line. He was patting at his pockets as if hoping he’d find a notebook somewhere.

“I don’t know. He’s been acting a little … off,” Marcel said slowly not eager to throw his friend into the path of Louis, no matter how much Nicholas been avoiding Marcel.

“Was this before of after the decision to sell the house went public?” Louis asked, his hands resting on his flared hips, seemingly having given up on finding paper to write on.

Marcel had to think about it. The last they’d spent time together had been the night Nicholas had come to the house for dinner. They’d gone into the garden afterward and had a drink. Then he’d left. The next time Marcel had seen him in town, the man had ducked into the closest store to avoid saying hello. Marcel had known Nicholas had seen him, too.

“Before,” he said.

Louis stopped him, then, his hand on Marcel’s upper arm, his fingers squeezing gently as he nudged him into the alleyway between Perrie’s bar and the hardware shop.

“Look, I know you think I’m a few apples shy of a pie, but I need you to be honest with me about anything I ask,” Louis said, standing so close that Marcel could smell him. Pine. He tried not to breathe deep, though a small, traitorous part of him wanted to bury his face in Louis’ neck and live in that scent.

No. He shook his head, just a tiny bit. “I don’t think you’re … short on apples,” Marcel said slowly. The intensity that had gripped Louis’ small frame, that had held his muscles taut, didn’t relent. “I don’t. I … at first I thought you were a fraud. But now…”

“Now you still think I’m off my rocker,” Louis said, but he’d relaxed a tiny bit, shifting his weight back onto his heels. Marcel sagged against the brick wall, not realizing how tense he himself had been until Louis moved out of his personal space. He slipped a finger up to tug at his collar.

“I want to find who’s doing this,” Marcel squeaked out, his throat dry and tight. “I believe you can help.”

Louis’ eyes flicked over his face, and he tried not to duck away from the scrutiny. Then the man nodded once and completely stepped back.

“Alright. Let’s find ourselves a ghost.”

***

By the time the morning slipped into afternoon Louis was regretting the decision to let Liam stay at the mansion. They’d wanted someone there in case another incident occurred, but taking notes was a pain in the ass. Louis was going to have to remember to give the kid a raise sometime soon.

After meeting about three-fourths of the town, Louis had suggested they debrief at the diner. Steve’s. It was … charming. The booths were bright turquoise blue; pink and yellow cars were situated so they looked like they were driving out of the walls; and Doris Day crooned at them from the neon jukebox in the corner.

Steve turned out to be an attractive man with long, sleek dark hair pulled back into a low ponytail. He smiled and laughed a lot and seemed to get Marcel to unclench just a tiny bit.

Once they ordered (and Louis got over how charmed he was that Marcel wanted a mint chocolate chip milkshake) Louis pulled out the notebook he’d finally found tucked in his jacket pocket.

He’d met quite the cast of character this afternoon. Turns out River Heights was tiny, and no one really ever left except for the war. The ones who managed to survive that still came back to the tiny town.

Louis’ eyes flicked to Marcel’s face. Including Nicholas Grimshaw.

Marcel had been insistent Nicholas wouldn’t cause any trouble at the mansion but he was, at the moment, one of Louis’ top suspects. He looked back at his list.

Nicholas Grimshaw. Age 29. Fought for four years in the war, then returned to River Heights to run the small radio station that was set up in the basement of his mother’s bakery. Friends with the Styles family, especially Marcel, though Nicholas was a few years older. Recently, there’d been a falling out.

“I just don’t think…” Marcel said, watching where Louis’ finger lingered over the scrawled name.

Louis looked up. “War changes people, Marcel.”

Neither of them had fought, but they all knew people who had. Those boys came back with shadows in their eyes.

The moment broke when Marcel nodded. “Who else caught your attention then?”

Simon Cowell. He was next on the list. Mid-fifties, a struggling real estate developer who’d tried to cover his financial distress with fine tea and cookies in the reception area of his office. He’d been charming, smiling and friendly. Louis had recognized a viper the minute he’d seen him.

“Cowell,” Louis said slowly. “He wants to buy your mansion. Why?”

Marcel shrugged. “To tear it down, I suppose.” He nudged his glasses up and Louis refused to be endeared by his constant fidgeting. “He’s been here a while. But all his plans for building always seem to fall through. He has some rich backer he always talks about. But I’m not sure who it is.”

“Would he have enough money to buy your property?” Louis asked, pen poised.

Marcel tilted his head, one way, then the next. “Don’t know. Mom said he seemed interested when she came to town to meet with the contractors. Wanted to take her to dinner, but she refused.”

“Is he interested in more than the house then?”

“Ew, gross,” Marcel squinted at him and shook his head. Then paused. “Possibly, though. He’s been trying to invite her to dinner since Dad died.”

“Classy,” Louis murmured. Cowell was interesting. Certainly a possibility. But if he was trying to buy the mansion, why would he be terrorizing them? Except... “Maybe he wants you all desperate. To sell to the lowest bidder.”

Marcel blinked, a slow sweep of dark lashes. “That actually makes sense.”

Louis grinned as Steve arrived with their food. “One of these times that will stop surprising you,” Louis said, shifting his notes out of the way for the hot plates. “Best PI in Trenton, remember?”

“Yeah, but that’s like a goldfish being the best swimmer in a fishbowl,” Marcel murmured as he pulled his milkshake closer. His eyes snapped up to Louis’ face after he said it, and his hand slapped over his mouth in that ridiculously cute way of his. “Gosh da...”

“I feel like I should be flattered,” Louis said as he picked up his massive burger with both hands.

Marcel was a delightful shade of pink. “Why’s that?” He managed to get out between his fingers.

“I’ve watched you all morning and you’ve been nothing but excruciatingly polite with literally everyone you talk to,” Louis said, and bit in. Fucking amazing. “So, I must be special.”

The color drained from Marcel’s face at that, and Louis wondered if he’d struck a nerve. Probably he had. Marcel watched Louis’ ass too much for him not be a little interested. And if Louis was the first guy that had happened with...well.

He cleared his throat. As much as he liked teasing Marcel, actually making him terrified was not high on his list of fun things to do. “Not ruling Cowell out then.”

Marcel tugged at his collar, then bent forward, and in the most obscene way possible stuck out his tongue to find the straw for his milkshake. It took a few minutes of grappling, pink tongue on plastic, before he got it to his mouth. And then... then he _sucked._ Those delicious, bubblegum lips that had been made for sucking cock wrapped tightly around the borderline phallic shaped thing and pulled, tugged, swallowed.

Fucking hell.

Just when Louis thought he might actually expire right in the middle of the fucking diner with it’s weird fucking cars coming out of the walls, Marcel glanced up, mouth still sucking like his life depended on it, cheeks lovely and hollowed out. His eyes, crystal green in the early afternoon light, met Louis’, held. Danced away and then came back.

Louis dropped his burger to his plate and (as surreptitiously as he could) pressed a palm to his groin where his cock had decided now was the perfect time to show a little interest. He nearly groaned at the contact.

Marcel followed his hand down as far as he could see. So. Louis hadn’t exactly been subtle, but he couldn’t feel too bad about it. It had been an erection emergency.

When everything clicked for Marcel, his face flushed red, and he popped off his straw immediately sitting back against the booth, looking anywhere but at Louis’ face or his hand (which was no longer touching his cock, he wasn’t an animal thank you very much).

“Um. Bathroom,” Marcel muttered, and then practically fell off the bench in his scramble to get away. Poor Bambi. Louis watched him go, annoyed with himself. But he’d been faced with Marcel Styles practically fellating his milkshake. He was only human.

He sighed and turned back to his list, his appetite gone.

Apart from Cowell, Louis had met Zayn and Ed, who had gone to school with Marcel. (“Not friends,” Marcel had said tightly when Louis had implied they had been. “I was… the cool kids didn’t like me.” Louis had wanted to smooth the crease along Marcel’s forehead, to hug him. He had shaken off the impulse. It was one thing to lust after Marcel Styles, it was another thing to care about him.)

Zayn ran the mechanic shop at the end of Main Street and Ed was one of the sheriff's deputies. The former had been on the quiet side, gorgeous and somewhat… shy. Ed had been the opposite. Loud, friendly and ginger. He’d tugged Louis into a side hug the minute they’d been introduced, and had talked like he’d taken a line of cocaine in the bathroom.

Louis had asked Marcel later if either of them had grudges against the Styles. “Not more than anyone else,” Marcel had shrugged. Which had been interesting.

They’d moved on to Shawn, a tall kid with a mop of dark brown hair. Marcel had genuinely smiled when he’d talked about him and Louis had tried to ignore the dark tightness in his belly until he saw them interact. They were both awkward and goofy and gangly, and Louis wondered how they didn’t manage to continually trip over each other. But there clearly was nothing romantic going on between the pair.

Just before they’d dipped into the diner, Harry had poked his head into Perrie’s bar. The waitress Jesy had been there, wiping down tables. Both ladies had smiled and waved, polite but not enthusiastic. They’d been busy.

So, he had a list so far. Niall, the realtor; Nicholas, the angry friend; Cowell, the desperate developer; Zayn, the brooding mechanic; Ed, the copper (both in color and profession); Shawn, the best friend; Perrie, the busy bar owner; and Jesy, the disinterested waitress.

There would be others to consider, of course. But it was a start.


	5. Chapter 5

Three days later, Marcel was pacing the length of his laboratory while Louis perched at one of his work benches.

Two more incidents had happened: one where a bed in their spare guest room caught fire and one where the light flickered on and off during the middle of the night for an hour. Each time, Louis had brought out his ghost-hunting equipment, running it carefully over the bed, the wall, the floorboards, only to shake his head in disappointment.

Marcel thought that out of everyone else in the household--out of Liam, Louis, Gemma and Anne--Marcel was the only one who wasn’t secretly upset that there weren’t ghosts.

“What if it’s not even someone in town,” Marcel said now, brushing his chalk-coated hands against his tweed trousers. “What if it’s a random mad man.”

Louis tapped the end of the pen against his chin and tipped his head. “Why would he stick around?”

And. This was the thing--Louis was smart. He was quite intelligent, in fact, not just streetwise, which could have been expected. It made Marcel uncomfortable for reasons he didn't want to delve into. Well, everything about Louis Tomlinson made Marcel uncomfortable.

There had been a general thawing between them after the trip into town, but that still didn’t mean Marcel wanted Louis here, in his house, touching his things, invading his space.

“He’s become obsessed with someone in the family,” Marcel countered now.

Marcel almost wanted it to be true, because the alternative was that whoever was doing this was someone they know. That sat on his chest, a lead weight, that one of their friends or acquaintances or just someone he’d known all his life could come into their home with the sole intention of scaring them.  

“I think…” Louis started slowly, not looking at Marcel. “That in such a small town you would have heard about a drifter by now.”

That was true. So. Gosh darnit. He tossed the nub of chalk into the trash bin and the clatter it made was satisfying. It was as much of a tantrum as he was willing to throw.

Louis tracked his angry movements with those gorgeous blue eyes, and Marcel glanced away. He couldn’t meet Louis’ gaze anymore. Not after Marcel had looked across the table at the diner and had seen Louis--pupils blown--watching Marcel with such … lust.

His mind had danced away from the word for the past three days. He and Louis had spent a good amount of that time in each other’s company, traversing the halls of the mansion, going over the suspect list, collecting information on all of the people in the Styles’ lives. But every time Marcel met Louis’ eyes he wanted to drown in them and go back to that moment when the world had stood still. That terrified him more than anything else in his life ever had.

Louis hadn’t mentioned this thing between them. He hadn’t mentioned it when Marcel had stumbled back from the bathroom, the collar of his shirt wet from when he’d splashed water on his face. He hadn’t mentioned it on the walk back, which had been silent and heavy with unspoken words. He hadn’t mentioned it in the days since, when Marcel found himself unconsciously watching for any signs that Louis...that Louis wanted him.

Again, he trembled and stuttered over the idea. It was absurd. Ridiculous. Dangerous. But every time he told himself that, he saw Louis’ hand pressing against his own groin, the moan trapped in his throat as he looked at Marcel with eyes that were more black than blue. Something hot pulled tight in his belly, something he’d never truly felt before Louis Tomlinson had walked into the mansion.

He’d woken up the night after their trip to town in sweat-drenched sheets and sticky pajama bottoms. It had been years since he’d had a wet dream, and he hadn’t even been able to pretend he’d forgotten who it was about. Not when he could still almost feel the soft swell of Louis’ behind in his palms and the man's name on his lips.

Shame had washed over him as he’d stripped the bed and changed. He wasn’t a teenager any longer, he should be able to control himself. It was all very, very confusing, and all Marcel wanted to do was hide in the comfort of his lab. Unfortunately Louis didn’t seem to be on board with that plan.

“So what do we do to narrow it down?” Marcel asked now, turning to face the standing blackboard. It had every one of Louis’ suspects’ names written on it in stark white letters.

“Tell me about Shawn,” Louis said, and Marcel could tell he was deliberately keeping his voice neutral. It had felt like a betrayal even writing his best friend’s name down, and Marcel thought maybe Louis had been able to tell.

“It’s not him,” Marcel said without hesitation.

“Great.” Louis’ voice easy, too casual. “I love when we can rule people out. It helps us narrow it down. Why do you say it’s not him?”

Marcel turned back to Louis. The sunlight poured in through the lab’s one small window, and it caught the shimmer of his golden skin. He looked magical, like he was from another world. Marcel blinked, hard, to rid himself of the fanciful notion. Louis was very, very human.

“No motive,” Marcel said, trying to speak Louis’ language. The man wouldn’t just go for, _because Shawn’s my best friend, my only real friend._ “He has no connection with the house, or my family beyond getting tea with me a couple times a week.”

“Has he ever shown any interest in Gemma?” Louis asked.

Marcel paused for a second, then shook his head. “No.”

Louis studied him for a beat, and Marcel wondered what he saw on his face. Then Louis turned his attention back to the board. “Do you think this feels personal?”

The whiplash from the conversational pivot set Marcel off-balance. But he wanted to seem like he could keep up. “Um…”

“First instinct,” Lous chimed in. “Do you think this is personal?”

Was it? It was a strange, but good question. The incidents were too close to Marcel, too disruptive to his family for him to think about them analytically. But. When he did? He could see why Louis was asking.

“No.”

Louis glanced at him, his eyes intense. He nodded in agreement and Marcel let out a little puff of air he hadn’t realized he’d been holding in at the approval. “The person isn’t targeting one of you. All the incidents are random, not directed to a specific person, but rather just disruptive to be disruptive.”

And, oh. Yes. That was what Marcel had been thinking but hadn’t been able to put into words.

“It doesn’t seem aimed at one of us,” Marcel agreed.

“So that might rule out Nicholas Grimshaw,” Louis said his voice dropping a bit so that Marcel had to turn toward him to make sure he heard correctly. Louis’ head was bent over his notebook, not meeting Marcel’s eyes.

“You think it’s Nick?”

Louis glanced up at that, but his face was a blank mask. It was strange, and made something in Marcel’s chest catch. Usually Louis was so expressive, wearing his every emotion in the lines by his eyes, by his mouth. Now, Marcel couldn’t read what was going on in that quick, interesting mind and he didn't like it.

“I think you two had a falling out right before there were incidents that disturbed you and your family in your own home,” Louis said, his words careful and measured. Marcel could tell he was trying not to rock any boats.

“But... but…” Marcel trailed off, not sure where he was going with the denials. Yes, Nick had been acting strange toward him for a few weeks now. That didn’t mean he was setting fires to the guest bedrooms in the Styles’ mansion, though. Certainly not because Marcel had incited any kind of anger in him that would have warranted such an extreme response.

Marcel just wasn’t that type of person. He was… staid. Boring, in fact.

Smoothing a hand over the front of his sweater vest, he realized he didn't want to say all that to Louis even if it was a valid point. It had never bothered him before, what people thought of him. That people knew he would never be the the type to draw out a passionate response from someone. It hadn’t mattered. But maybe... maybe Louis didn't need to actually be told that. Just in case he hadn't realized yet, Marcel didn't feel like ruining the illusion.

“You think this was revenge from Nick?” Marcel asked, because surely that was absurd.

Louis tilted his head. The sun caught the long, elegant line of his neck, and Marcel’s mouth went dry.

“I think it doesn’t look personal,” Louis said again, slowly. “All of these… so-called incidents. They’re random. Generic. A couple fires in mostly unused rooms. The wallpaper ruined. The lights. The closest it’s felt to a personal attack is when Anne’s clothes were laid out. But even that was a once off.”

“Then how do we figure out who’s doing it?” Impatience added a thick layer to Harry’s voice. He wasn’t...he wasn’t frustrated with Louis. The man was (and Harry hated to admit this) doing what he could to figure this all out. But Marcel wasn’t seeing a way forward beyond this idle speculation.

Silence greeted his question and he refused to watch Louis reel back from the sharp accusation that was left unsaid. _Why aren’t you doing more? Why can’t you solve this?_

But Louis didn’t seem angry, not at Marcel and not at their utter lack of progress. Instead he was contemplating the list of names once more.

“I think we should have a house party,” Louis finally said.

Marcel’s brows scrunched. “Because entertaining is just what we need to take our mind off the mayhem?”

Louis laughed. “No, sweetheart. I just find it very interesting to see how people react when they return to the scene of the crime.”

***

“I still don’t like you,” Marcel said so soft that it almost got swallowed by the night.

Louis had been staring off into the expansive backyard, but at Marcel’s words he set his drink aside and turned toward the other man.

The moonlight chased away some of the shadows on the patio. Marcel was beautiful in the silver beams that slid over his face, his chest, his body.

Louis relaxed back onto the lip of that wall, his bum catching against the jutting stones. He didn’t really want to find Marcel attractive. He wanted to keep him underneath a very specific and limited label. Arrogant nerd. Asshole, even. The problem was, Marcel wasn’t quite going along with that plan. Which made him harder to dismiss.

“I don’t think that’s true,” Louis said gently, crossing his arms over his chest. They’d had dinner just a little while ago, and everything had been very courteous, very polite. The women had asked for an update on the investigation, but had mostly kept to benign topics. Liam had watched it all with those puppy dog eyes that saw too much. And Marcel. Marcel.

It was hard not to tease him, to poke at him, to try to get his full attention. Louis had begun to realize that it didn’t matter if all he was doing was providing an easy target for insults, it still meant that Marcel was watching him, thinking about him, reacting to him. That attention was seductive, heady, and Louis could do little to stop himself from seeking it.

The corners of Marcel’s mouth tightened into an almost pout. Louis wanted to thumb at his bottom lip, wanted to linger there in the plushness.

“You can’t say that,” Marcel said, sounding all of five-years-old. There was a tantrum brewing in the crease of his eyebrows, in the way his knuckles went white against the stem of his glass.

“Why not?” Louis asked, swinging his feet against the low wall, knowing full well he was being insolent.

Marcel moved closer, one step, beyond where the gentle glow from the lights in the study spilled out onto the patio. He was in Louis’ world now. The one that was made up of dreams and shadows and starlight and expectation.

“Because I don’t like you,” Marcel said, his chin tipping up. It was a challenge, one Louis decided not to take up.

“Can I ask you a question?”

Marcel’s shoulders drew back, taut and defensive. So ready for battle. So easy to read.

“Alright.”

Louis breathed in, breathed out. Tipped his head toward the sky to take in the stars, then looked back at Marcel. “Why don’t you believe in ghosts?”

Marcel inched forward then as if sensing an opening he wanted to exploit, so eager to change Louis’ mind. “How can you? There’s absolutely no evidence in all the thousands of years men have been on earth. It defies the laws of physics. And we don’t have a soul separate from our bodies so there is nothing that would linger on.”

“You don’t think we have a soul?” Louis asked.

“Not…” Marcel ran his hand through his hair, musing the carefully slicked back strands. “Not like you people think we do.”

That startled a laugh out of him. “Us people?”

There was that frustrated pout again. Louis thought maybe everything Marcel wanted to say was getting caught behind a tied-tongue. It was … almost endearing.

“People who believe in ghosts,” Marcel finally stuttered out, the words falling heavy between them.

“So let me get this straight,” Louis said, keeping his voice light. He should probably be annoyed by Marcel, insulted. But that was not what he was feeling. “You don’t think there’s anything beyond your understanding in the universe?” He waved toward the sky, but kept his gaze on Marcel’s face. “Why do you, Marcel Styles, think that you know everything there is and could be in this world? Why do you think there’s nothing that’s mysterious and unsolved and beyond your infinite knowledge?”

“I already told you I don’t think I know everything,” Marcel protested.

“Then why are you so insistent about the ghost thing?” Louis pushed. Poking, prodding, seeking attention, seeking to know this man.

There was a quiet intake of air, a shifting of weight from foot to foot. Marcel shuffled in Louis’ direction but it didn’t feel like he was stepping closer. If anything he was moving deeper into the darkness that pushed and surged at the edge of the patio. “Because without logic and science…”

“What? What would happen?” Louis needed to know. He didn’t fully understand why it was important. But something about this moment held him hostage, kept him just at the edge of some precarious ledge.

Marcel shifted again, his finger coming up to the collar of his shirt. Louis liked when he did that, liked when he could tell he was getting to Marcel. “I don’t know what you want me to say.”

That wasn’t true, not really. Because he’d been on the cusp of something. “I want you to say there’s something that exists beyond logic.”

“No, I won’t,” Marcel said, stiff and stubborn, his hand smoothing over his sweater vest, his eyes deep pools beneath thick glass.

“Why does that scare you so much?” Louis asked. He wanted to pluck at this loose string, pull and tug, unravel it.

“Because.”

“Because why?”

Marcel breathed in deep, nostrils flaring as they dragged in air. “Because then I don’t make sense.”

Louis rocked back, his heart aching. _Baby._ It was what he wanted to say. He wanted to gather Marcel up, between his legs, pulling him into his arms. He wanted to thread his fingers through Marcel’s hair as the boy buried his face in Louis’ neck. He wanted to whisper praise into the soft skin below his ear, to rub circles into his back. Baby. It came again, a deep yearning ache that settled into Louis’ belly. Baby.

Instead of any of that, Louis looked away from Marcel’s face. Everything about the boy was tight, wound, ready to shatter at Louis’ feet with the least provocation. He needed to be soft with him, now.

“In every universe, you make sense, Marcel Styles,” Louis whispered. His lungs sucked on the thin air that he pulled in, his heart skipped then raced. Why was he even saying any of this? To a practical stranger. It was like he’d lost his damn mind.

But the moonlight revealed secrets. It revealed the way Marcel swallowed hard, twice, when Louis said that. It revealed the tremble in Marcel’s hands. It revealed the half-step. The one that brought Marcel closer.

It had been subtle, the way Marcel had shifted each time he spoke so that he was now standing in front of Louis, nearly bracketed by his legs.

Louis reached out, slow like he would toward a frightened animal. His fingers touched the bare skin of Marcel’s wrist.

Marcel’s pulse rabitted under his thumb. That was their only contact. That and their eyes. They held each other still beneath the weight of too much understanding.

“You can’t just say things like that,” Marcel said, his forehead dipping toward Louis’, his hips shifting into the space created by Louis’ spread thighs.

“Why not?” Louis breathed out. Everything was delicate, everything was fragile. One wrong thought, one wrong frown, one wrong sigh could disrupt the way Marcel held his body so near to Louis’.

Marcel leaned even closer, the outside of his legs rustling against Louis’ inner thighs. Their groins were a breath away from each other, their shoulders nearly brushing. Louis wanted to wrap his calves around Marcel’s behind to pull the man flush up against him.

Louis didn’t really want an answer to his question. What he wanted was to freeze this moment, beneath the starlight when they were breathing each other’s air, where they could feel each other’s heartbeat beneath sweaty palms.

“You scare me,” Marcel whispered, his mouth nearly resting against Louis’.

“Same, sweetheart,” Louis murmured back, but he didn’t dare move, didn’t dare break whatever this was.

There was a second where Marcel tipped his chin down as if he were going to close the distance between them, but then someone laughed too loud inside or a cat yowled in the distance or Marcel just fucking remembered where he was. Because in one moment Louis had an armful of boy and the next Marcel had lurched back, eyes wide, chest heaving, hand pulling at his sweater as if it were suddenly too tight.

And fuck.

The last thing Louis wanted to induce was another panic attack. But just as he slid off the wall to go soothe Marcel, the boy held out a palm, shaking his head. “No,” it was a gasp, a whisper, a plea, and Louis stopped immediately. Of course he did.

His hands fell to his side useless as Marcel whirled and fled the scene.


	6. Chapter 6

Air. There was no air. Marcel’s knees hit the floor in his bedroom and all he could do was offer his thanks he’d made it back to privacy before he died.

Because that was surely what was happening. Everything was tight and the black was crowding in a the edges of his vision. His thoughts were sluggish, stuck three paces behind his body, stuck on the stairs, stuck in kitchen, stuck on the patio. The patio, the patio. Louis. Air, he needed air.

His hands grappled at his sweater, tearing at it. He needed it off. Sitting back on his haunches he finally maneuvered it over his head, then went to work on the top buttons of his shirt. His fingers fumbled, so he just started tugging, the fabric far too restrictive against his windpipe.

Just when he thought he would never breathe again there was blessed relief. Hands batted away his own bumbling attempts, and went to work on the shirt. Then there was air, cool against his skin and cool in his lungs. The fingers didn’t stop until they'd pulled the fabric out of the waistband of his trousers.

“That’s it, sweetheart.” Of course it was Louis. If Marcel had still been able to think straight he would have been mortified, but at the moment he was so grateful he could cry.

There was air. The blackness still popped in his eyes, but it was no longer sliding in from the sides, threatening to pull him under.

His muscles one-by-one relaxed, starting in his jaw as he sipped at the oxygen so beautifully provided. The tendons in his neck were next, then his shoulders, his arms, his fingers, his hips, his thighs, his toes. He melted into the floor, curling up so that his head was on Louis’ legs.

There was a hand in his hair, tangling into the strands, and there was a voice murmuring a constant stream of nonsense reassurance. Marcel sank into it, too desperate to feel ashamed for taking the comfort.

He didn’t know how long they sat like that, and Louis didn’t stop his gentle ministrations until Marcel finally shifted away.

Immediately, Louis dropped his hand. “I’m so sorry,” he said, his raspy voice even quieter in the still room. Marcel couldn’t look at him. “I know you didn’t want me near you right now, but I couldn’t leave you like that. I’m so sorry, Marcel.”

And something about the way Louis said Marcel’s name broke him, even though he was already in pieces. Not _sweetheart,_ but Marcel. The formality of it, the distance was so different than Marcel had become used to, had become _attached to_ in such short amount of time that it hurt. Even though he'd been the one to run away.

“No... Louis, I’m...I’m sorry. I’m a … mess,” Marcel whispered, his throat raw.

“You’re not,” Louis said, but he was moving away from Marcel, putting space between them. Marcel didn’t know how to ask for those hands back, to ask for Louis back. So he just bit on his lip until he tasted copper and wished he wasn’t… like this.

He shook his head, because there was nothing to say. Louis was being nice. Marcel was a mess. He’d fallen apart in front of this man twice now and he’d known him for less than a week. And when he wasn’t going to pieces, Marcel seemed to be unable to stop hurling insults at him. He shifted up so that he was sitting on his calves.

“Whoa,” Louis said, pushing to his feet. “Easy, easy.”

Then those hands were on him again, firm yet gentle at the same time. They guided him up and nudged him toward the bed. Marcel tripped and tumbled into it, but it was a controlled fall; Louis wouldn’t have let him hurt himself.

The mattress was a welcome haven of softness against the harshness of what had just happened. He burrowed into it, turning damp eyes on Louis where he hovered at the edge of the bed. There was worry in the line that creased between his brows and Marcel wanted to place his lips there.

When that thought didn’t send him spiraling again, Marcel thought maybe he was alright to speak. “Thank you, Lou,” he said, his voice a bit stronger than it had been. “I’m glad it was… I’m glad you…” were here. He couldn’t quite finish, the idea of being so vulnerable while he was already emotionally wounded too intimidating to actually say the words. But it seemed like Louis got it.

Louis relaxed for the first time since he’d come in the room, the tension dropping out of his shoulders. “I didn’t mean to scare you,” he said, his hands hovering above Marcel’s limp wrists, as if he wanted to feel his pulse again, like he had on the patio.

“I know,” Marcel said, and they locked eyes. It was too much. “You do, though.”

Louis blinked and looked away, looked back. “You scare me, too.”

Impossible. Marcel didn’t say it out loud, but how could he, fumbling, awkward, socially inept Marcel, ever scare anyone?

Even if he’d wanted to argue, though, Louis wasn’t giving him the chance.

“We’ll talk about it tomorrow, alright?” Louis said. “Are you feeling better?”

Marcel nodded, not sure which question he was answering. Talking about all of this tomorrow seemed daunting.

“Alright, I’m gonna…” Louis gestured in a vague leaving-manner. When Marcel remained quiet, Louis nodded once and then turned to cross the room. He only hesitated when he got to the door, but it lasted for the blink of an eye, and then he was moving again, out into the hallway. The quiet snick of the closing door was loud in the room that was all of a sudden way too quiet.

The blood rushed past his eardrums, but not in that scary way it did right before an attack. This was more just … overwhelm.

He stared at the ceiling even though he couldn’t see it in the dark. There were no cracks there (Anne would never let such disrepair occur in her home) so it wouldn’t have given his eyes anything to do anyway.

Marcel liked to think he was honest with himself, sometimes brutally so. He knew he was awkward, a bit strange, the (lovable) black sheep of a fashionable and stylish (pun intended) family. When he hurt feelings (which he did because his foot-in-mouth habit wasn’t limited just to Louis as polite as he tried to be) he tried to acknowledge it. When he was hurt, he tried to admit it and not lash out instead.

But this Louis thing… his mind kept shying away from it, nudging at its edges but reeling back almost immediately thereafter.

He’d never been interested in girls. It was something he’d just thought wasn’t for him. When the other boys in school talked about pin-up posters, Marcel had tuned them out in favor of running mathematic equations in his head. When Sarah Barstow had trailed her hand up his thigh that one night they’d gone parking, he’d flinched away and fumbled out of the car. When he _released energy_ while in the shower it was quick and efficient, pleasure almost secondary to relief.

At college, he’d been too focused on his studies to pay much attention to anything. Every once in a while a man would catch his attention out of the corner of his eye, when he wasn’t braced for it, when he wasn’t carefully controlling his reactions. There would be a brief flare of heat in his belly and then he would school his body once more.

That wet dream he’d had about Louis hadn’t been his first, though. They didn’t come often (which was part of the reason behind the private shower time) but when they did it wasn’t ever breasts that set him off. It was long, sleek torsos, and thick arms, rough hands. Never faces. Not until that last one. But being with a man wasn’t exactly something he could pretend he hadn’t ever thought about.

So, the Louis thing wasn’t exactly out of nowhere. But he’d never felt like _this_ toward a man. This immediate desperate craving to touch and be touched. To sink to Louis’ feet and beg him to do what he wanted, even if Marcel couldn’t even begin to conceptualize what that would be.

He breathed deep, enjoying the way the air slipped into his nostrils, down his throat to fill his lungs. It always took a while after an attack for him to remember to take oxygen for granted again.

Marcel had stopped being distrustful of Louis days ago, maybe even on that first meeting when Louis had first called him “sweetheart” and sat on the floor until Marcel had stopped panicking.

He’d started liking him not long after that. Even if Marcel hadn’t wanted to admit it, he couldn't deny it, either. I must be special, Louis had said. At the time, it had slammed into him like a fist. It had felt like Louis had so easily peeled back all his defensive layers and seen a truth that Marcel hadn't even realized was hidden there. In the dark, now, with just his thoughts, he could admit how fond he was of the man. It went beyond whatever this newfound lust was, way beyond.

Liking Louis was so easy. He was funny, clever, had an open mind and a relaxed manner. He laughed off insults and brushed off compliments with equal ease. He was kind. So kind. So gentle. So lovely. So, so, so lovely.

Marcel had lived his life being terrified of forming a connection with someone. Not just because it was a man (though that added another layer of fear) but because it was a person who could hurt him, who could break him, who could find him wanting and reject him just like so many other people had. Marcel knew deep in his gut falling for Louis would be so easy. It was the potential crash that made his breath catch in his throat again, though.

What would happen if Marcel stopped being scared? What would happen if he stopped lying to himself? What would happen if he reached out and took what he knew his body craved, what he knew his soul craved?

When Louis touched him, when they breathed each other’s air and shifted closer, ever closer, it had been… golden. Absolutely golden.

And for once in his life he thought the pay-off might be worth the risk.

***

Louis skirted the light spilling out of the parlor. He had no interest in running into Anne or Gemma. Or Liam for that matter. His assistant had the strange ability of being able to see too much on Louis’ face.

He didn’t break stride until he was back on the patio, leaning against the wall. The darkness spread before him, thick and unrelenting. There was a forest behind the house, the lawn melting seamlessly into the trees, a river of ever deepening shadows.

_Shit._

The sharp edge of a stone bit into his palm and he welcomed the pain. It let him focus on something other than the complete mess that was going on in his head, which all seemed to boil down to Marcel.

He could still taste the metallic panic in his mouth when he pictured Marcel crouched on the floor of his bedroom, his fingers fumbling at his collar. It had been Louis who had driven him to that, and the guilt sat like a weight in his belly.

From that very first day in the lab, when Louis had gotten too close, too fast, he’d had known he had to be careful, delicate, with Marcel. And yet, Louis had drawn him closer anyway, desperate to taste those lips, to hear a quiet sigh escape, to press fingers into the softness at Marcel’s hips. Louis wanted nothing more than to take him gently apart and put him back together again.

But not if it sent Marcel spiralling. Louis had felt so helpless, caught between not wanting to waste time to find someone else to help Marcel and not wanting to aggravate Marcel’s attack with his presence.

In the end, he did believe what Marcel had said, those damp eyes so full of mysterious emotions behind his thick glasses. _I’m glad…_

It had taken a lot not to follow him down on the bed, hold him close, cuddle him until he fell asleep.

And that was... new. Caring for someone when they were sick or stressed wasn’t strange to him. He had tons of little sisters who had quickly learned his shoulder was a good one to cry on. But this absolute protectiveness toward a man he wanted to sleep with was.

Everything had seemed so simple when Louis had just been appreciating a tight body, a pert ass and a pretty face. He tried to remember the flash of anger he’d felt whenever Marcel essentially called him a naive idiot, but it wasn’t there. Instead he saw Marcel slapping a palm over his own mouth, his eyes horrified at himself. He saw the tilted head, the consideration, whenever Louis surprised him. He saw the slow unbending of a man whose convictions were the only thing that let him make sense of the world.

In those terms, it was amazing how vulnerable Marcel had let himself be around Louis.

Louis would have to be more careful with that trust in the future.


	7. Chapter 7

Marcel smoothed a hand down the front of his sweater and it only trembled a little. He considered that a victory.

He turned to one side, then the next, his reflection looking just the same as it had for all 27 years of his life. Sighing, he let his belly relax a little bit so that it was no longer sucked up into his body.

What was he doing?

Not once in his life had he cared about what he looked like beyond wanting to appear appropriately dressed.

The morning light was soft in the room, but did little to hide all the soft pudges and vulnerabilities he desperately wished weren’t there. He glanced back toward his wardrobe, which he knew only held more of the same. Basic trousers, sweaters, cardigans and button-down shirts. Ties and bow-ties.

Petting at his slicked back hair he sighed one more time and turned away from the mirror. This would have to do.

Last night he hadn’t looked any different, though. And Louis had watched him with (if he was being honest and he was really trying to be) something that at least _seemed_ like desire. Maybe… Maybe Louis liked him like this. Just Marcel.

He shook his head as he skipped down the stairs. His thoughts were far too fanciful for so early in the day.

“Oh darling, good morning,” Anne cried when he walked into the kitchen. She turned back to the stove almost immediately, and his eyes shifted to the table.

_Louis._

He was beautiful. Now that Marcel was being honest (he really, really was) he let himself acknowledge just how stunning Louis was. His cheekbones alone could fuel weeks worth of  _tension release_ in the shower. Not to mention the curve of his ass, the quick smile, the little tummy, the eyes. God, those eyes.

Heat flooded through him when Louis looked up, and then Marcel tripped over air. He would have gone tumbling face first into the pile of eggs on the table but suddenly Louis was there, his hand gripping Marcel’s bicep to steady him.

“Whoa,” Louis said softly under his breath, his cheek nearly brushing against Marcel’s. He pulled back a little and there was humor in the crinkle by his eyes. Marcel’s face flushed with an odd mix of lust and mortification that he would maybe have to sort out later. “You alright?”

Marcel choked on the words sitting on the tip of his tongue, but he thought something might have come out that resembled a “yes.” Even if that clearly wasn’t the case.

He straightened a bit and Louis’ hand dropped from his arm. He missed it the moment it was gone.

Anne glanced over her shoulder, shooting him a warning look. _Play nice._ He almost laughed, in fact had to swallow a manic giggle. If only she knew.

Slipping a finger beneath his collar, he tugged and then tried to sit down with at least a modicum of grace and composure. Louis’ eyes were still on him, tracking his every move and he was caught between preening and ducking his face to avoid the intensity of the moment.

“Ummm…” he managed, impressed that it was at least a coherent sound and not a collection of syllables that made no sense. “The party?”

Louis took his own seat across from the table and started to answer only to be interrupted by Anne.  

“What party, Marcey?”

Marcel squeezed his eyes shut at the embarrassing nickname. It took a few seconds to get himself to pry one lid open and when he did, Louis was grinning at him in glee. _Marcey_ , he mouthed silently just like he had that first night and Marcel felt that odd mix of mortification and desire once more. Warmth spread through his chest, and crawled up his neck. He was sure he was bright pink.

“Louis thinks we should invite some of the people from town up to the house for a dinner party,” Marcel said, dragging his eyes off Louis’ face. Anne was watching them, her head tilted back, her arms crossed.

“You think it’s someone from town then?” The question was sharp, and her gaze snapped to Louis.

Louis shifted under the weight of it.   

“I think it’s likely someone you know,” Louis said gently. “It will be interesting to see how they act when they’re forced to be here with you all watching them.”

“Hmmm, seems a bit haphazard,” Anne said, and the small smile Marcel had been wearing slipped from his lips. Hackles raised along his spine before he even realized he was getting defensive. Which was… strange. Only days ago, he would have been the one lobing such a criticism, and now he wanted to spit off all the reasons that it was a fantastic idea.

Louis, of course, didn’t need protecting. Marcel should have remembered that from the easy way he’d always countered Marcel’s jabs with laughter.

“We’re working on a couple angles, Anne,” Louis said, leaning back in his chair, his shoulders relaxed and open. Marcel had to admire what he was doing. _Were all on the same side here,_ his body language implored. “Liam and I are going to start taking shifts at night. It’s a large house, so we may not be able to catch whoever is sneaking in and out of here, but we’ll try.”

A protest caught in Marcel’s throat. “That’s dangerous.”

Louis wiggled his brows at Marcel, suggestive and teasing. “Worried about me then?”

Straightening, Marcel dug a finger beneath the collar of his shirt then pushed his glasses up. “No of course not. You’re a professional after all.”

There was surprise in the way Louis shoulders pulled back. It might have been the lack of irony in his words, or just the fact that Marcel had passed on an easy shot to take the piss out of him. Before last night, Marcel would have been surprised himself. Now, all he could do was hold Louis’ gaze for as long as possible. Eventually it got to be too overwhelming and he dropped his eyes to the table.

“I just don’t want you and Liam to put yourselves in harm’s way unnecessarily,” Marcel mumbled. Anne was suspiciously silent and he steadfastly refused to look her way.

“Don’t fret, buttercup,” Louis said, his voice light and airy. The endearment wasn’t meant for Marcel, not really; it was a joke meant to break the tension in the air. Not _sweetheart_ murmured in the dark of the night with their hands on each other. “It’s unlikely we’ll run into this person. I know there’s tons of hidden staircases and passageways in here. In fact, that’s one thing you could do. Draw us a map? Maybe highlight the ones that are most easily accessible from the outside.”

Marcel nodded, grateful for a task.

“So what about this party?” Anne pressed. “You want us to invite everyone here on short notice? Won’t they get suspicious?”

“Yes, but they won’t be able to avoid it,” Louis said, turning so he could look at her. “They’ll be on high alert and sweating bullets. But everyone knows everyone’s business here. Unless we get really unlucky, even the culprit will have to show because people will know why he or she doesn’t.”

And, that did make sense. Bowing out of a social event required copious amounts of explanation every time you ran into someone over the following week. They all sat with the information for a bit before Anne cleared her throat.

“Alright,” she said, and there was a determined air about her that Marcel wasn’t used to seeing anymore. It was nice, actually, despite the circumstances. “I’ll take care of all those logistics, just get me an invite list.”

“Thank you,” Louis said. “And as for today. I’d like to go to the library.”

That caught Marcel’s attention. “Why?”

Louis glanced toward the ceiling like he was trying to see beyond it, then dropped his chin again. “I have a feeling about this house.”

Anne shifted by the stove. “What do you mean?”

Louis rolled the shoulder of the arm that was stretched along the back of the chair next to his, the muscle of his bicep shivering beneath the fine, white fabric of his shirt. His eyes flicked to Marcel’s. “Call it a hunch.”

There was another easy opening. Marcel didn’t take it. “Usually what we call hunches are actually a combination of our brains taking in a lot of excess information and sifting through it without us being aware.”

He could tell the answer surprised both Louis and Anne.

“I thought it was the ghosts whispering secrets to me,” Louis said, but there was fondness in a voice that was lacking all bite. Marcel blushed at what seemed to be becoming an inside joke. He’d never had an inside joke with someone other than Shawn or his family. “No, but really. I’ve narrowed it down to two motivations that I’m going with at the moment.”

“Business,” Marcel said, mostly for the sake of Anne. “To drive down the price, maybe. Or scare us into selling early.”

Louis nodded. “Or,” he paused, drawing it out so long that Marcel rolled his eyes. “Something happened here.”

Anne gasped at the dramatics of it all. “What do you mean?” Her voice was a wisp of its normal self. “Like... a murder?”

There was an amused glimmer in Louis’ eyes, but he kept his face straight when he answered. “I don’t know. I want to look up some old newspapers. See if anything seems off.”

“I can come with you,” Marcel offered. “But nothing comes to mind at the moment. Mom?”

She shook her head. “No, nothing more than pranks when you were kids. We haven’t been here for much longer than that.”

Louis clapped his hands as he leaned forward. “Let’s see what we can dig up.”

***

Like everything else in town, the library was tiny. It stood alone on the corner at the very end of main street, a sentry to the encroaching suburbs beyond. Louis paused just inside the door to let his eyes adjust.

Marcel bumped into him softly, his gangly body reacting to the impact far more than it needed to. Louis turned quickly to steady him as he flailed those long arms and toppled back a few steps on Bambi legs. “You’re just learning to walk, then, sweetheart?” Louis asked, but he kept his hand gentle and firm against Marcel’s arm until he’d properly steadied himself.

There was a pink blush riding along Marcel’s cheekbones, and his finger came up half-way in what seemed like an aborted attempt to tug at his collar. “You...stopped.”

Louis’ eyebrows flicked up and he dropped his hand. “Hmm, I’ll be sure to warn you next time I take such a drastic action.”

“Shut up. You’re so little I didn’t even notice it was happening,” Marcel nudged at Louis’ shoulder and Louis had to suppress a smile. He loved when Marcel tried to flirt back. Oh, he could have fun with this.

Leaning in so that his breath ghosted over Marcel’s jaw, so that he could feel the warmth of Marcel’s body against his own chest, Louis whispered, “I’m about to start walking again, alright?”

Louis glanced up beneath his lashes in time to see Marcel blink, a slow sweep that did nothing to hide the storm roiling in those green eyes of his.

The moment was taut and heavy despite the humor. They had yet to talk about last night or anything serious between them. In fact, they’d spent the entire walk to town discussing one outlandish senario after another about what could be going on with the house.

But then Marcel scrunched his nose in the most endearing way that made Louis want to tap the pad of his finger to it and the tension was broken.

Louis breathed out, ignoring the way his pulse was fluttering far too fast, and turned toward the information desk.

A young woman sat behind it, crouched over a book. Her curly brown hair hid her face and she didn’t look up at them until Louis rapped his knuckles on the wood of the counter.

Her name tag read Emily and her face read _annoyed_ as she squinted at them. “Can I help you?”

Louis beamed at her. “We’re looking for your old newspapers. I’m talking decades old possibly if you have ‘em.”

The charm did nothing to win her over. She simply lifted her arm and pointed toward the back of the room, past the bookshelves. There was a small, hand-painted sign that read _Newspapers_ hanging from the ceiling.

“Ever so helpful,” Louis murmured, as Marcel uttered a truly sincere “thank you.” Louis really was beginning to think there was something special about himself for Marcel to have been so completely rude to him those first two days.

About twenty minutes later they were sprawled on the ground, stacks of old, yellowing paper piled up around them. He sighed and glanced at the clock. It was going to be a long day.

“How long have you been back from college?” Louis asked, nudging one of the stacks. It was everything from the past year, and he wondered if he could rule it out. He also wondered why he hadn’t given Liam this task.

“I finished up my doctorate about eighteen months ago,” Marcel said, sniffing and digging out a handkerchief from his pocket. It was a lacy, pink thing, embroidered with flowers, and Louis thought he might never stop being enchanted by this person. Then Marcel sneezed, with his whole entire body, and Louis laughed, he couldn’t help it. If there were ever a moment to ruin any illusions of perfection it was when someone violently sneezed.

“Can you think of anything in that time that was...suspicious? Someone hanging around you too often? Coming up to the house for strange reasons?”

Marcel stuffed his hanky back into his trousers as his eyes lost focus. After a few moments he shook his head. “No, nothing. We live a fairly quiet life. Mom and Gemma go into the city to socialize. But they don’t have many close friends here.”

“And you spend most of your time in the lab?” It sounded lonely and Louis’ heart ached for this awkward darling.

Marcel chewed on his bottom lip, looking anywhere but at Louis’ face. “Yes. I like it. It makes me feel…”

The silence hung and Louis stopped himself from pressing. There was a vulnerability that clung to the curve of Marcel’s shoulders and Louis would be damned if he bruised him any further.

“It makes me feel safe,” Marcel whispered, and Louis’ heart shattered. “Normal.”

“Like you make sense,” Louis said, and their eyes locked. Suddenly they were back on the patio once more, the space between them nonexistent. _In every universe, you make sense, Marcel Styles._ Why had he said that? How had he known it to be so true?

Marcel nodded, a hesitant dip of his chin. And Louis knew this wasn’t the time or place for this conversation. “Alright. So why don’t you start looking at papers before that time.”

“What will you do?” Marcel asked as he shifted to his knees to find the right pile to start with.

“Well…” Louis drawled. “Why don’t I take your teenage years and work backward from that. Once you get to me, we’ll go further to before you all even owned the house.”

“This feels a bit hopeless, Lou,” Marcel said, his butt hitting the worn carpet once more, a thick bundle in his hands.

“It always feels that way right up until you find something,” Louis said with a wink, but privately, he agreed. They were looking for a needle in a haystack when they didn’t even know what a needle looked like.

***

It was six hours later that Louis made a soft sound in the back of his throat. Marcel glanced up, but Louis’ attention was focused on whatever he was reading.

The distraction was a good excuse as any to give himself a break, though. Marcel squeezed his eyes shut and then stretched his arms over his head, letting his spine bend along with gravity as his clasped hands tilted toward the carpet behind him. His whole body was sore, used to long, tedious work, but not used to long, tedious work sprawled on the floor.

By the time he’d shaken his muscles loose, Louis was looking at him. There was something dark, something dangerous, in his eyes, but it was gone as soon as he realized Marcel was tuned in once more.

“Tell me about Annabelle Cranston,” Louis said, his voice rough beyond his usual rasp. They hadn’t talked much in the past few hours. Even when they’d gone for a quick lunch (Emily had been adamant that they were not allowed to bring food into the library even as she munched on her sandwich) they’d mostly sat in comfortable silence, both lost in their own research.

The demand was not what Marcel had been expecting. “What?”

Louis’ eyes dropped to the page where his finger was holding a spot. “Annabelle Cranston. She disappeared when you were,” his gaze flicked to the ceiling, then back to Marcel’s face, “sixteen.”

Annabelle. Of course, he remembered Annabelle. Everyone in the town remembered Annabelle. He just hadn’t been prepared for the question.

“Right,” Marcel pushed his glasses up on his nose. “Annabelle grew up here. The Cranstons were close friends with my parents. There’d even been talk…”

“Of you two getting married?” Louis supplied when Marcel trailed off.

Marcel sucked in air and almost choked on it. “Yes. How did you…?”

Louis shrugged. “Figured that’s how those kinds of families worked. But that, um, probably wouldn’t have gone over well with you, huh?”

A little chuckle escaped. “Or Annabelle for that matter,” he said, calling up an image of the girl. “She was beautiful, popular. Funny and friendly. Everyone loved her.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“She was kind of mean to some people, but not overly so,” Marcel shrugged. Their high school had been tiny and popular hadn’t actually really meant much other than you snuck out at night and got drunk in the woods. “Mostly ignored me, to be honest.”

Louis nodded. “So maybe not loved by everyone?”

“Touche,” Marcel dipped his head. “She ran off the day after she turned sixteen, just like she said she was going to. I always picture her staring in some Broadway play in New York or something.”

“People didn’t think it was weird?” Louis asked, his finger tapping out a staccato against the paper. “It says here there was a police report filed.”

There was an intensity in the way Louis was watching him. He straightened, trying to better recall the events of that summer. “Hmmm. Yes, I think her parents didn’t believe she’d run away. They said she hadn’t packed anything.”

Everything about Louis sharpened, but his voice was still even when he asked, “She didn’t take a bag? Any possessions?”

“I remember that’s what they said,” Marcel said slowly. This was obviously important, but he couldn’t figure out why yet. “But we all just assumed she’d been squirrelling away money and things like that to take with her.”

“There was no note then?” Louis asked.

Marcel thought about it. He had never been too concerned about Annabelle, fairly secure in the knowledge that she’d hitch-hiked to the nearest train station to catch a one-way to the city. Finally he shook his head. “I don’t think so.”

Louis looked down again and didn’t say anything for a long time. When he looked up his eyes were wide, his pupils dilated. Marcel could tell he thought he was onto something. “Who was she dating, then?”

“What?”

“She’s a pretty girl,” Louis said, waving at a black and white pixelated square that must be her picture. “What boy caught her eye?”

And that, that Marcel could answer easily. “Zayn. Zayn Malick. They were the hottest couple at school.”

“They were dating when she left?” Louis pressed.

God that summer had been hot, sticky. That’s what he remembered most about it. That and the time he’d watched Johnny’s lips for a second longer than was necessary and thought about kissing a boy for the first time. He tried to push all that aside. Zayn and Annabelle.

They used to sneak off into the woods behind Marcel’s house. The two of them and Ed, Perrie, sometimes Jesy, but she was too artsy to be mainstream-cool. Shawn had gone once to the absolute betrayal of Marcel, but he’d reported back that all they’d done was drink bad beer and attempt to play the guitar around a little fire pit.

There had been drama at some point that Marcel hadn’t paid close attention to. Something between Zayn and Annabelle, a yelling match at school that everyone whispered about behind open palms. But no one had really talked much to Marcel, so.

“I think so,” Marcel finally answered. “They were one of those couples. On again, off again. But everyone figured they’d get married. Her parents didn’t approve of him. He slacked off at school. But we figured they’d give him a job. They owned a cracker factory over in Oakbridge.”

Louis nodded along. “Who’s most likely to buy your mansion?”

Lightbulbs were going off in Louis’ head and Marcel desperately wished he could see what they meant.

“Probably Simon Cowell and his backer,” Marcel said even though Louis knew this. He was clearly gathering his facts around him, plucking them out of the air and placing them into a nice little basket.

“What would he do with it, do you think? Why would he want your house?” Louis asked.

Marcel tried to answer as quickly as possible, not wanting to slow down whatever train was barrelling through Louis’ mind. “Tear it down probably. Build something else on the land. He never wants to keep the houses he buys, just wants the lots.”

“Fuck me,” Louis said quietly.

It was an unusual feeling, being the person in the room who didn’t know everything. It made him itchy and desperate. “What?”

Louis locked eyes with him. “What if Annabelle didn’t run away?”

“If she didn’t run away…” Marcel said slowly, still trying to catch up.

Louis’ eyebrows lifted. “Then how did she disappear?”


	8. Chapter 8

Marcel was frozen in the darkened hallway outside Louis' room. If anyone wandered out of their rooms to use the facilities or to traipse downstairs for a midnight snack they’d see him, question him. They’d know.

But still he couldn’t bring himself to move.

He’d heard Louis finish with his patrol twenty minutes ago, switching out with Liam, their voices loud against the stillness of the rest of the house. They still hadn’t talked about last night. (Or, now with midnight behind them, it would be two nights ago.)

After Louis had found out about Annabelle in the library, he hadn’t been able to let it go. He’d pried every detail Marcel could remember about her out of him on the walk back, and then had started in on Gemma and Anne. None of the Styles was able to provide much information beyond what Marcel had already told Louis.

So they’d talked strategy, they’d talked town history, they’d talked about its current social dynamics. But they hadn’t mentioned the way Marcel’s legs had brushed against Louis’ inner thighs, or how their breaths had tangled in the cool evening air.  

Which led Marcel to this. Stalking Louis in the dead of the night.

Did it count as stalking if it was his own house?

He shuffled, not sure if he was moving forward or retreating, and then the worst-case scenario happened. The door opened.

Louis stood there looking so soft bathed in the low light from his room. His hair was a rumpled fringe across his forehead; his eyes were hooded from the late hour; his mouth was relaxed and parted in surprise.

Marcel brought his hand up and did a little finger wave at him, and then wanted to die a million deaths. Could he be any more awkward?

But there was a slow smile tugging at Louis’ lips. They watched each other for a heartbeat, and then another and then another. When the silence had stretched so that Marcel felt it like a weight on his chest, he made to move away, to run and hide and pretend this never happened.

Louis, however, wouldn’t let him. He reached out, his fingers curling around Marcel’s wrist. Once skin met skin, Marcel knew there was no turning back.

They didn’t say anything as Louis pulled him into the room. They couldn’t anyway, what with so many people around them. The walls had ears these days, and Marcel had no desire to tell them his secrets.

So he went, his body pliant and willing and ready and excited. Getting out of bed, walking down the hallway, standing in front of Louis’ door almost ready to knock. Well, he’d made his decision in each of those actions. Maybe this scared him more than anything he’d ever felt in his life. But maybe that’s why it would be worth it.

Louis seemed to know there was no need for words beyond, “You want this?” and a frenzied head nod, “yes.”

They kissed for the first time against the door. Louis crowded in around Marcel, his thick thigh slipping between Marcel’s legs; one hand resting on the wood while the other tangled in the loose curls that Marcel had let dry naturally after his bath. Louis’ fingers caught in the strands, tugged, and heat pooled in Marcel’s groin, heavy and heady and irresistible.

It was slow and so different than Marcel had always imagined. He’d thought he would be caught in his own head, over-analyzing every tilt, every sigh. But that didn’t happen. All he could process was Louis. _Louis. Louis._

Marcel was surrounded, even though he was taller than the other man. Louis’ deep, masculine scent caressed him, wooed him. Pine. The forest floor after a rainstorm. _Louis._

His warmth was everywhere, too, and Marcel burned in it, even before Louis’ mouth touched his.  

Then his taste was on Marcel’s tongue. Rich and alluring and devastating. At first it was just a gentle press of lips. A peck, a hello. Louis seeking an invitation and Marcel offering it so easily. After that, it deepened into something Marcel wanted to remember and cherish. Their tongues slid against each other's, sending pinpricks of desire to his rapidly hardening cock.

He’d never… he’d never felt like this before. He’d never been with _a boy_ before. There had only been awkward fumblings with a few women over the years. But those encounters paled in comparison to this. _This._ Nothing could ever come close to it.

Louis moaned, the tip of his tongue tracing the ridge of Marcel’s palette and Marcel died a thousand deaths in that moment. Everything was hot and slick and his chest was tight with all that was about to happen.

Distantly he wondered if he would have an attack, but another part of his brain told him no. The reason he’d spiralled so viciously before was because he’d been fighting the fact that he wanted this. Now he knew, had accepted it. He wanted Louis plundering his mouth, he wanted his body to be trapped between the door and Louis’ compact frame. He wanted, he wanted, he wanted. And for once in his life he was going to let himself _take_.

“Louis,” he murmured, once the other man pulled back to lick and nibble at Marcel’s lips. “Please.”

He was begging already, hard as a rock in his pants against Louis’ thigh, and he wasn’t ashamed. Louis pulled back, his eyes hooded, his pupils blown, his lips wet with saliva. Marcel thumped his head back, barely able to keep his knees from shaking as he took in the sight of Louis, lust-flushed and debauched.

“Baby,” Louis groaned, his eyes wild, flicking over the planes of Marcel’s face, down to his neck, his shoulders, his chest and then back up.

Marcel crumpled, so that he could hide his face in the crook of Louis’ neck. “Can you…?”

Louis’ arms were around him in an instant, those calm capable hands stroking a pattern against Marcel’s shoulder blades. “Can I what, love?”

“Sweetheart,” Marcel forced out. Because if this was to be his fantasy for one night, he wanted it to be perfect. “Can you… can you call me sweetheart?”

“Oh da…” Lous swallowed the endearment before it fell out. He paused and Marcel thought he must be the most foolish person alive to care about something so silly. But then Louis slid a hand into Marcel’s hair, and placed his lips against Marcel’s temples. “Sweetheart.”

Marcel shuddered, the word running along his spine, down around his hips to settle in his groin. God, he wanted. He just didn’t know what to do with this desire that pulsed with each heartbeat. He whined, a thin, distressed sound that was meant to be _please_ and _I don't know what to do_ and _take me_ , all at once.

“I have you, sweetheart,” Louis murmured into Marcel’s hair. “Come on, then.”

And then Louis was maneuvering him toward the bed. They fell into it together, a tangle of limbs and bodies. But Louis was still over him, surrounding him. His hips settled against Marcel’s and for the first time in his life, Marcel felt the hard outline of another man’s cock against his own. Maybe it should have thrown him, sent him spiralling. But instead he arched into it, his lower back coming off the mattress as his own heavy, flushed cock sought contact, friction.

“Greedy,” Louis whispered against his lips and then pulled Marcel’s bottom one between his teeth. Marcel keened as the pain of it shot sparks of pleasure along all his nerves.

Louis smoothed his hands down Marcel’s cheeks, capturing his face even as Louis pulled back. The moonlight filtered in through the curtain, throwing a lacy pattern against Louis’ caramel skin and Marcel just wanted to trace every inch of it with his tongue.

_More._ He wanted to be taken apart by this man, and then put back together.

Marcel whimpered, and it seemed that was all he could do. It was so very overwhelming, the pleasure, the heat, the tightness in his pelvis. Louis’ weight above him, holding him steady and still. Louis' ass and the way it pressed up against the sensitive flesh of Marcel’s upper thighs. And still, still, that deep scent that curled around Marcel and soothed any of the panic nipping at the edges of his consciousness.

“Sweetheart," Louis breathed out. And then his hands were at the waistband of Marcel’s pajama bottoms. Instead of pulling them down, though, like Marcel expected, Louis traced warm fingertips up along Marcel’s belly until they found his ribcage. “God, you’re gorgeous, baby.”

Marcel threw his head back as Louis skirted up along Marcel’s chest to find his nipples. They were soft, and too puffy. He used to hate how sensitive they were when they’d bead beneath thin shirts in the cold or chafe against his sweater in the winters. But now. God, now. Louis’ thumb traced Marcel’s wide areola, while his tongue delved into Marcel’s mouth. He took his time, playing with the sensitive skin, his fingers flirting ever closer to Marcel’s nipple, but somehow always passing it by. Marcel pushed himself into Louis’ hand, his mouth all but lax under Louis’ ministrations.

Just when Marcel thought he would die this way, consumed by the flames that Louis was keeping so carefully banked, Louis finally, finally, pinched Marcel’s pebbled nipple at the same time he sunk his teeth into Marcel’s bottom lip. For never having had any experience like this before, it was _a lot._ Marcel shuddered, his balls drawing tight as Louis plucked at the sensitive bud of a nipple that had never been touched by hands other than his own.

“Fuck...Christ,” Marcel cried out as softly as he could, his whole body seeking contact with Louis’. How were people meant to withstand this pleasure.

“That’s it sweetheart,” Louis murmured against his mouth. “Let go when you want to, my love. I’m here, I have you.”

After that Marcel lost coherent thought. It was like a flip had switched with Louis' permission and all of a sudden he was chasing after something. He twisted in the sheets beneath Louis’ body, seeking relief from the tension that was pulling his body so tight, like a bow ready to be released. Louis pushed Marcel’s pajama top up to his armpits, exposing his nipples to Louis’ view. Marcel glanced down and saw that they were raspberry pink, puffy and soft, except where they were hard like cut glass. He flushed at the sight of his obvious, wanton desire.

But there was amazement in Louis’ voice. “The most beautiful boy,” he said from where he straddled Marcel’s hips. The feeling of his hard cock pressing against the seam of Marcel’s groin sent waves of pleasure through Marcel’s body.

This was so much. Beyond any of his fantasies. He looked up, meeting Louis’ eyes and he knew his own were damp, could feel the tears spill out over his lashes and onto his cheeks.

Louis seemed to understand, though, that he wasn’t in distress. He just _wanted_. God. He wanted.

“Please,” he croaked out between dry lips, not even knowing what he was asking for. Louis watched him with eyes that were more black than blue. Then he brought his hand to cup Marcel’s face, the pad of his thumb gentle as it swiped against Marcel’s cheekbone. The sweetness of the moment directly contrasted to the way Louis was swivelling his hips down, grinding figure-eights into Marcel’s desperate, needy, pleading cock.

“So pretty for me, sweetheart,” Louis murmured and the praise shot straight to his groin. His balls were drawn up against his body, and his belly was heavy with the heat that coiled tight, like a fist. “So perfect.”

Then Louis leaned down and, after pecking Marcel once on the lips, latched onto Marcel’s nipple, his teeth skating over the sensitive flesh as his tongue explored Marcel’s areola. While Louis’ fingers found the other pebbled bud, his hips stuttered and shifted rhythm so that Louis’ cock dragged directly against Marcel’s weeping dick.

That was all it took to send him well and truly over the edge. Tears ran down his face, his muscles trembling, his body aching, as he came in thick, delicious pulses into his pajama bottoms.

***

Fucked out Marcel was literally the most gorgeous thing Louis had ever seen. He had to press the palm of his hand to the base of his cock to keep himself from coming.

Loose curls framed Marcel’s flushed face, sweat beaded along his temples, his eyelids were heavy over pleasure-blown pupils, and his lips were plump from use.

“Jesus,” Louis whispered, his hand running along the unbearable hard length of his own cock. If this hadn’t been Marcel’s first time, Louis wouldn’t have been able to stop now. He’d peel those messy pajama bottoms down to reveal what he knew would be a wet, gorgeous dick. Louis would lick at the sensitive head, clean it, and make Marcel whimper with the overwhelming feeling of Louis tongue against him. Then Louis would suck bruises onto those lovely thighs he’d been fantasizing about since he’d first seen them, clad in ugly trousers.  

But it was his first time. And it had already been _a lot._ Marcel was dazed and fucked out, his face still damp from tears and Louis prayed to every god that ever existed that this wouldn’t be their only night. Now that he had a taste of this, of how good it could be, he was addicted.

He rocked a bit into his hand, not sure how Marcel would react to him sliding his pants down enough to finish himself off. It was one thing knowing theoretically your partner had a cock and actually seeing it, hard and red jutting out of a thick patch of hair.

Marcel was barely breathing, barely moving, but his eyes followed Louis’ movement and he made a little protest that caught in the back of his throat when he seemed to realize what Louis was doing.

“Wanna make you…” Marcel slurred, his gaze flicking back up to Louis’ face. “Don’ know how but wanna.”

The words zipped down Louis’ spine and he paused.  

“Please Lou.” Marcel was blinking back to himself, coming down off his high. “Wanna make you feel good.”

If Louis would ever be able to deny Marcel anything when he looked like that and when he sounded like that, this was not the time. He paused a moment longer, but in the end he trusted Marcel to know what he could handle. Louis nodded once, and then thought about it. He didn’t want to overwhelm him with too much.

Louis pushed himself off Marcel, smiling when the man made a scratchy protest, his hands coming up to catch at Louis’ hips. Louis batted him away and got off the bed to strip. When he looked back, Marcel had pushed himself up so that he was leaning against the headboard. His eyes were wide, flicking over Louis’ thighs, his hips, his arms and then down to his cock. There was blatant hunger on his face as he licked his lips. The fucked-out look was gone (more’s the pity) and in its place was eagerness.

“Can I… Can I touch you?” Marcel asked, eyes snapping up to Louis’ but then falling again almost immediately to his groin. Louis laughed lightly as he climbed back on the bed.

“Yeah, sweetheart,” Louis said, lying down next to him. Marcel shuffled a bit to his side so that his weight was supported by his elbow. Then he slowly brought his fingers to rest gently against Louis chest, just barely touching him. It was agony keeping still, to not just rut up against Marcel’s thigh until he came. But it was almost better this way.

Marcel’s eyes were everywhere again, but his fingers stayed still.

“You can touch, baby,” Louis murmured finally. “Don't be nervous. I’m going to like whatever you do. Because it’s you.”

Pink tinged Marcel’s cheeks at that and he bent to press a quick kiss to Louis’ lips. Louis laughed in surprise, but Marcel’s mouth was gone before his brain really caught up to it. And then Marcel started exploring.

His palm slid down and Louis’ breath caught in his throat until Marcel’s hand stopped just below his belly button. There was a softness there that Louis had always hated but there was nothing but desire on Marcel’s face as he bent down to kiss the skin just above his fingers. Louis’ cock twitched at the feeling of Marcel’s mouth so close to his groin.

But Marcel ignored the hard length of it where it rested just beneath this hand and kept kissing up, dipping a tongue into Louis’ belly button, then trailing dry, soft lips up to Louis’ sternum. All the while he kept his palm pressing against Louis’ stomach, grounding him. The difference between the two sensations made Louis’ head fuzzy and light.

His tongue was thick in his mouth as Marcel kept kissing him everywhere, just light brushes of lips against skin. Against his shoulder, against his neck, against the place where his heart thudded beneath his ribcage. Marcel’s pinky was a hair's breadth away from Louis’ cock, which kept it hard in anticipation. Jesus, this shouldn’t feel this good.

This sweet, almost innocent torture was so different than what he was used to. His last boyfriend had been years ago, and he hadn’t had the time or energy for something serious since. Usually he got off in the toilets at secret clubs, a fast suck or a messy handjob. Sex to him lately had been rushed and hot, the wildfire burning out almost as quick as it had come.

This, god, this was so different. It was slow and syrupy, like there wasn’t a finish line to race toward. And he felt… cherished. He’d pulled Marcel into the room expecting to be the one in complete control the entire time and now he felt like he’d dissolve and drift away if not for Marcel’s hand holding him down.

The only sound in the room was their heavy breathing, both of them dragging in air like they’d run a mile. Otherwise the dark cradled them in its arms, keeping them warm and safe in their gossamer cocoon woven together by their collective _want._  

After minutes, hours, years of the delicious torture, Marcel finally hovered over Louis’ nipple. It was smaller, flatter and darker than Marcel’s, but it was beaded just the same. Marcel didn’t kiss it, though. Instead his bubblegum pink tongue darted out to give it a kitten lick, a quick tiny taste before it was gone again. The sight of it alone almost had Louis coming, and he pressed his hips down into the mattress so that he wouldn’t rub up against Marcel’s hand, mindlessly desperate for friction.

There was a smile on Marcel’s face, one that Louis had never seen before. It was as if he’d just realized the absolute power he had, and Louis thought that was the most beautiful thing in the world. Marcel was coming to terms with the fact that he was a gorgeous, sexual seductress. Everyone needed that moment in their lives.

Except Louis was regretting it a minute later when Marcel tried the trick again. One little kitten lick. Wet heat that was gone before the sensation could really sink in.

Louis whimpered, and the smile grew. Marcel shifted so that he could reach Louis’ other nipple, and he licked at that one too. “Fuck. Sweetheart.”

In a quick move that was far more graceful than Louis had ever seen Marcel, the man swung his leg over Louis’ hips so that he was straddling the tops of his thighs. He hadn’t even brushed at Louis’ cock yet and it was still as hard as it had been when Marcel had come. Jesus.

“Y-You like this right?” Marcel asked, fully sitting up. Louis was pinned beneath him, panting and wide-eyed, his hair damp with sweat and he just lifted a brow.

“No. I hate it terribly,” Louis dead-panned with a little twitch of his hips to draw Marcel’s attention to his cock.

Marcel giggled a little and then scrunched his nose. “One minute,” he said and bent to press a wet, open-mouthed kiss to Louis’ belly where his palm had been moments earlier.

Louis threw his head back, squeezing his eyes tight, when Marcel’s chin brushed against his throbbing dick. Torture. Absolute fucking torture.

When he opened his eyes, Marcel was off the bed and shucking out of his ruined pajama bottoms. They must have been uncomfortable, especially as his come had started to dry.

It all meant, though, that Louis was rewarded with the sight of Marcel’s bare, pert ass, and God he wanted to sink into it. With his fingers, his tongue, his cock, he wasn’t choosey. He wanted to spank the white flesh until it turned pink and then he wanted to spend days laving over the print of his own hand. He wanted Marcel to ride him, backward, so that he could watch his cock disappearing between those gorgeous, perfect cheeks. He wanted…

And then Marcel turned around and Louis almost swallowed his tongue. He’d been able to tell Marcel was hung when he’d been grinding against him earlier, but seeing it was a whole 'nother matter. He wasn’t even fully hard and he was still beautifully big. Louis wanted to impale himself on that cock, rock back on it until it stretched him so full he’d be thinking about it for a week.

Marcel giggled again, and Louis knew he must look like he’d just been walloped. He blinked and shook his head but couldn’t look away from the cock that was thickening under his hungry gaze. “Mmmph.”

And just like that, the kitten seductress was back. Marcel swung his hips as he crossed the room and climbed back on the bed, his cock bobbing with him. Then he settled back down on his haunches, straddling Louis’ legs. His eyes were on Louis’ face as he trailed his fingers over his own upper thighs.

Louis couldn’t help it, he reached up to touch, but Marcel batted him away. When Louis curled his fists into the sheets, Marcel smiled and then cupped his cock like he was presenting it to Louis.

He wanted to cry at the injustice of not being able to wrap his lips around the gorgeous thing right this minute. But Marcel was being so beautifully confident it made Louis’ chest hurt a little. Especially when he could so easily bring up the image of him huddled on the floor in the midst of an attack because they’d almost kissed. So he just watched and tried not to die from the arousal that had been a steady burn for far too long.

Marcel began stroking himself then, his eyes flicking between Louis’ face and his poor, neglected cock. His hips twitched when Marcel brought his other hand up to cup his own balls and Marcel smiled. It was like he was running one of his experiments to see what Louis would react to. _All of it_ , Louis wanted to reassure him.

By the time he started pinching at his own thighs, his hand going faster as his cock thickened, Louis couldn’t hold back the little sounds escaping his lips. He was incoherent with want and so fucking aroused he thought if either of them so much as brushed against his cock he would be coming so hard he’d black out.

“Marcel,” he finally managed. “Please.”

The man’s eyes glimmered with that new-found power, but there was still his darling, sweet Marcel there too in the way he nibbled on his lip, unsure. “What should I do?”

Even twenty minutes earlier, Louis wouldn’t have suggested it for fear of overwhelming him, but this was a new Marcel. “Mouth, sweetheart. If you want.”

Marcel’s eyes went wide, but then narrowed quickly in determination as he scooted down.

He hovered above Louis’ cock, just breathing little puffs of warm air that were more torture against Louis’ sensitive skin.

Louis tried to control his hips from bucking up, wanting Marcel to set his own pace. But he felt like he was pulled so tight. His body was damp with a thin layer of sweat, his thighs shivered with repressed tension, his balls ached. _Ached._ He held himself still, though.

The pay-off was worth it. Marcel was a little hesitant as he grasped Louis’ shaft, but when he sucked the tip of Louis' cock into his mouth Louis whited out from pleasure.

It was hot and wet and tight and after what felt like an eternity of not being touched it was almost too much. Marcel didn’t take him deep, just laved at the tip, dragging his tongue beneath the head of it, dipping into the slit at the top.

Louis looked down at him and nearly came on the spot. Plump raspberry lips were wrapped tight around his dick, and Marcel was looking up at him with damp green eyes as his hips rutted down against the mattress.

Then Marcel sucked, hard, pressing Louis’ cock against the top of his mouth with his tongue. The soft brush of teeth was the final thing to push him over and before he could even warn Marcel, Louis was coming harder than he ever had in his life.

The world became a kaleidoscope of popping colors behind his eyes as Marcel tried to suck him through it. Waves of seemingly endless pleasure rolled through his exhausted body, which had been holding onto the edge of the precipice for far too long. He was panting, shaking and near tears when the last of the aftershocks subsided.

It took far longer than he cared to admit for him to realize Marcel, who was still sucking gently on Louis’ softening cock, was frantically shifting himself against the bed in search of the right amount of friction.

“On me, on me,” Louis managed to gasp out. Marcel’s eyes were wild as he met Louis’, and when he realized what Louis had said he finally popped off his cock. There was a thin strand of saliva connecting Marcel’s lips to Louis’ dick and if he hadn’t literally just come his brains out, Louis would have been interested to go again.

Instead, he reached down to catch Marcel under his armpits and haul him up. The man went willingly, scrambling so that he was straddling Louis’ chest. It only took a few more pulls on his cock before he was coming on Louis' collarbones. Marcel had thrown his head back, and his whole body bent with it. Louis trailed soothing hands up his flanks, then along his sides. He was so fucking gorgeous Louis couldn’t even believe it.

When Marcel’s dick twitched one last time, he rolled off Louis and collapsed against the mattress with a laugh that was more disbelief than humor.

“I think I’m dead,” Marcel said.

“Does that mean I just had ghost sex?” Louis asked, his lips barely able to move. He wanted to sleep for fourteen days.

Marcel giggled, and Louis decided he loved the sound and wanted to hear it always. “Maybe we should get your equipment out to see.”

“Oh baby my equipment already _is_ out,” Louis swiveled his hips obnoxiously even as his eyes slipped close.

“Oh my god,” Marcel groaned, but his voice was slow and sleepy.

Louis reached out blindly to pull Marcel into his side. Marcel came so willingly, his body pliant and loose. He fit perfectly, one leg thrown over Louis’, his arm resting against Louis’ chest.

Marcel traced a pattern with the drying come on Louis’ chest. He should probably wash it off, but a bone-deep exhaustion was keeping him glued to the mattress.

“Can I stay?” Marcel asked pressing a quick kiss into Louis’ shoulder.

Louis hummed and carded his fingers through Marcel’s hair. Liam was on patrol, and he didn’t want Marcel to get caught sneaking out of his room by the Styles women. But asking him to leave right now felt criminal.

“Of course, sweetheart,” he murmured. They drifted off to sleep, their limbs tangled together, with the smell of sex and sweat still in the air.


	9. Chapter 9

Two days later, Marcel was in his lab perched on one of his stools watching Louis pace around the small space.

Usually he hated being distracted when he was down here, but he couldn’t seem to care when the person doing the distracting was Louis.

Louis was on a rant. He was gesticulating wildly as he walked from end to end of the lab, his voice rising the more he got himself worked up, his body all but vibrating with annoyance. Marcel was barely even listening because they’d been over this so many times in the past two days he could do it by memory.

They hadn’t had another incident during that time, and it had them all on edge. Louis especially.

“We must be getting close to something,” he said now, his hand waving around. Marcel wanted to grab it so he could pull the man closer into his space. Louis had crept into his room the last two nights for glorious repeats of that first time, and Marcel really should be sated. But he wasn’t. It was like twenty-seven years of pent up lust had been unleashed and all he wanted to do was explore Louis’ body and have Louis explore his.

He glanced at the door. No one usually came down without knocking, but the dinner party was set to start soon, and that might mean Anne would come looking for them.

But maybe…

“And he’s not even listening to me,” Louis said, stopping in front of him.

“Who’s not, Lou?” Marcel asked.

Louis rolled his eyes. “I just said it must be Annabelle’s ghost causing all the mayhem and you didn’t even blink.”

Marcel grimaced and bit back all the reasons it couldn’t possibly be Annabelle’s ghosts, and Louis jabbed a finger into his chest.

“See,” he twisted it in.

“Sorry,” Marcel muttered. But now that Louis was in his space, it would be a shame not to take advantage of the proximity, right? So he grabbed Louis’ finger and used it to tug him into the v between Marcel’s knees. This was new for him, but he liked feeling comfortable enough with Louis to casually pull him in for a kiss. A week earlier Marcel would have been sprawled on the floor hyperventilating.

With Louis, though, he felt safe. He felt like he could explore. He felt like he could tease and flirt and just be.

Their lips had just touched when there was an abrupt knock on the door. It swung open a second later. Marcel’s pulse spiked as Louis jumped back out of his arms, both of them turning wide eyes on the silhouette at the top of the stairs.

“Boys the guests are going to start arriving soon,” Anne called down.

“Thanks Mom,” Marcel said, his voice only wobbling a little at the end. He cleared his throat and tugged at his collar thankful she probably couldn’t see them very clearly in the dim light that filled the room. “We’ll be right there.”

“Mmmhmmm,” Anne said, before disappearing. She’d left the door open.

Marcel met Louis’ wide eyes and there was a beat of silence before they both started laughing.

“Well, fuck,” Louis said. “That would have been an interesting conversation to have.”

“Yeah, just what we need right now.” Marcel shifted off his stool, smoothing a hand over his button down. He’d eschewed the sweater vest in a nod to the slight formality of the event. Anne had arranged for catering and everything.

“Alright,” Louis clapped his hands, all business once again. “Liam will be patrolling the house during the party to make sure no one sneaks off. You are talking to Perrie and Jesy. I’m going to corner Malik and Ed.”

Marcel nodded. “Just don’t like… piss them off.”

Louis cocked his hip, his eyebrow lifting. “You worried about me then, Styles.”

Blushing, Marcel ducked his head. “Yeah.”

Louis hummed low in his throat, and it sounded pleased. Marcel’s lips tugged up a bit.

“Doubt anyone will do anything in front of everyone,” Louis assured him as they started for the stairs. Just as Marcel stepped out of the way to let Louis go up first, Louis turned and grabbed Marcel’s wrist.

“Hey,” Louis’ eyes were fierce on his. “When was this basement refinished?”

“What?”

“The lab?” Louis gestured to the room, but kept watching Marcel. “I’m guessing it wasn’t like this when your parents bought it.”

Marcel blinked, trying to think. “Um. Like ten years ago? I think?”

Louis’ fingers tightened around Marcel’s wrist, his thumb digging into the jut of bone there. “Ten years ago? Or eleven?”

“Mmmm, coulda been,” Marcel said, again feeling like he was three paces behind Louis. “Why?”

“Eleven years ago, babe.” Louis squeezed one more time before letting go. “The summer Annabelle disappeared.”

“What does that have to do with anything?” Marcel asked, deciding he definitely was never going to take up a career as a PI. There were too many leaps of logic you just had to run with.

Louis had turned back to survey the room and it was clear he didn’t want to leave now that he’d had whatever epiphany he’d had. “Construction sites are perfect places to hide a body.”

And that’s when the doorbell rang.

***

After eating, the party moved from the dining table to the formal salon. Gemma and Anne were doing an excellent job at hosting and also at dodging the questions of why exactly they were throwing the shindig.  

Marcel had been a bit pale all through dinner and had tugged at his collar more frequently than usual, but nobody in the room had paid him any mind. It probably seemed like his normal state, but Louis could read his moods better than that.

(He especially liked when Marcel relaxed completely, but that was usually when it was only just the two of them together. Which. That was something special, maybe.)

Louis knew Liam was keeping careful watch from somewhere out of sight. The mansion was full of secret passageways that had cracks in strategic places to see into the room. The person who had designed this place must have been paranoid beyond belief, but Louis wasn’t complaining.

So, everything thus far had been going to plan. But things were just about to get interesting.

Louis caught Marcel’s eye from across the room and nodded. It was time.

Marcel swallowed noticeably, went a little white around the edges, but then nodded back, a determined glint coming into his eyes. Then he excused himself from talking with Shawn and made his way toward Jesy and Perrie who had secluded themselves in the far corner.

While Marcel crossed the room, Louis surveyed the rest of the scene.

A fair number of people had shown up despite the late notice. Niall swooped in to talk to Shawn as soon as soon as Marcel walked away. Neither of them raised any red flags to Louis. He’d talked to Niall at dinner, and the guy seemed genuinely excited to get his real estate business off the ground. Louis couldn’t imagine him risking that for any reason. Plus he was new to town.

Meanwhile, Shawn was too gentle with Marcel to be anything but a kind soul. Louis didn’t always like going on his gut, but the best friend really didn’t seem the likely culprit here. Fleetingly, before he looked away, Louis thought Niall and Shawn made a lovely couple. Then he rolled his eyes at himself. He refused to become one of those people who started pairing everyone up just because he was romantically satisfied at the moment.

His mind stuttered over the phrase. Sexually satisfied. That’s what he should have thought. He wasn’t… He and Marcel weren’t dating. But. But it felt like more than fucking, too.

Shit, not the time for that train of thought.

He pushed it away, really not eager to open that particular Pandora’s box, and scanned the rest of the room.

Emily from the library was on the couch with Steve from the diner. Steve was telling a story that involved him jumping to his feet at random intervals while Emily watched on with a slightly dazed expression. They both seemed relatively harmless, despite Emily’s propensity for swooping in whenever he or Marcel broke a library rule.

There was movement to his left, and his whole body went on high alert. Nicholas Grimshaw. He was slipping out through the door that opened onto the patio. Louis knew Liam would be watching to make sure he wasn’t up to something. But, this was also too good an opportunity to pass up. In all the hubbub surrounding his investigation into Annabelle, Louis had almost forgotten him.

With one last glance at Marcel, who had infiltrated Jesy and Perrie’s tight little circle of two, Louis followed Nick out into the night.

Nick was just lighting a cigarette when Louis stepped through the doors. The moon was out, illuminating the man’s face as he sucked in tobacco.

“‘Lo,” Nick said, twisting his mouth to the side so he could blow out and not get it in Louis’ face. Considerate. “Louis Tomlinson, right?”

Louis shoved his hands in his trouser pockets. “Yep. Nick, yeah? Heard you on the radio a couple times since I’ve been here.”

Nick smiled, took another drag. “Thanks.”

“Didn’t say it was any good.”

The smile turned into a smirk as Nick slid his gaze over Louis’ body, lingering at the flare of his hips and thighs. And, ah. Yes, Louis’ banter could easily be mistaken for flirting by a gay man.

“Didn’t meet your high standards, then, love?” Nick hollowed his cheeks again, and glanced up through thick eyelashes. In another life, it might have lured Louis into a bathroom stall. But in this one, he just smiled. Nick smiled back. “Those men in Trenton must be something else.”

Ah, shit. They’d never told anyone he was from Trenton. “Accent give it away?” He asked lightly.

Nick smirked and blew out smoke. It trailed off into the night. “I know people,” he said with a shrug. “What are you here for then? The wallpaper thing?”

Louis tensed. “What do you know about that?”

“I know I didn’t do it,” Nick dropped the cigarette to the patio and stepped on the stub with the toe of his shoe. “Barking up the wrong tree there, dick.”

Something about the way he said it made Louis believe him. Still. “What’s your issue with Marcel?”

Nick froze for a heartbeat and if Louis hadn’t been watching closely he would have missed the flash of emotion on his face before a carefully neutral mask slipped down into place. “Not your business.”

Louis lifted his brows. “Want me to believe you about the wallpaper incident? Try again.”

There was a brief flare of anger in the crease between his brows but then he sighed and the tension seemed to melt out of him. “I realized I was being foolish.”

The words didn’t make sense until they did. Louis thought about the way Nick’s eyes had lingered on his body, the look he’d shot him when Nick had thought he’d been flirting. “Oh.”

“Wrong tree,” Nick said again, and Louis wondered if he thought Marcel was straight or if he just thought he wasn’t interested in him. Louis wasn’t going to correct any misconceptions.

“Done with me, dick?” Nick asked after Louis didn’t say anything else.

“Yep,” Louis said, but then had a thought. “Hey, did you know Annabelle Cranston.”

Nick had pushed off the wall to head back inside but he paused at the question. “Vaguely. She was younger. Ran with that crowd,” he said tipping his chin toward the door. And then a light bulb seemed to go off. “Ah. That’s the point of this party, then?”

Louis didn’t confirm it. “Any impressions you’d like to share with the class?”

The man tilted his head. “Pretty, popular. Had a lot of boys chasing after her. Might want to start with that, dick.”

“Thought she was dating Malik?”

Nick huffed out a little disbelieving laugh. “She wasn’t the type to really settle down with any one.”

“Oh yeah? Was there someone in particular?” Louis asked, trying to keep the eagerness out of his voice.

Lifting one shoulder, Nick started to move toward the door again. “There’s always rumors.”

“Wait,” Louis wanted to reach out, grab him, stop him, shake him for information. “What were the rumors?”

Nick glanced back at him. “Let’s just say that group wasn’t just sharing joints.”


	10. Chapter 10

From the corner of his eye, Marcel saw Louis slip out onto the patio and he tried not to worry about him too much. The man was a professional private investigator. He’d probably even held a gun before. He would be fine on his own.

There was still a niggling worry in his gut, but it was small enough that he could ignore it if he tried.

“Marcel,” Jesy greeted him with a warm smile. “We were just saying how nice it is to see you socializing.”

He blushed at that and tugged at his collar. “It seemed time to get out of the lab.”

Perrie rested her hand on his forearm, leaning into his space. “Aren’t we far more interesting than those boring beakers you have down there?”

Maybe he was awkward sometimes, but even he knew the appropriate answer wasn’t “no.” So he smiled tightly and kept his mouth shut.

He wondered how he was supposed to casually bring up a girl that had disappeared eleven years ago in the middle of the small talk the women launched into.

But Louis was depending on him, so he had to try. In one strange move, he brought his hand up to the fireplace, so that he was leaning like he was the epitome of casualness. “Hey.”

The girls stopped talking mid-sentence, turning to him with matching confused looks. “Yes?” Perrie finally asked.

“Know what I was thinking about the other day?” And, good lord he was terrible at this. How did Louis do this as a job?

“No…?” Jesy trailed off.

“Um,” Marcel shifted, but in the process his hand slipped from the mantle and he almost went flying into the wall. His feet stuttered a bit to try to keep him upright and he caught himself before he fully slammed into plaster. One of the girls gasped and Jesy grabbed his arm to help steady him. Well. This was going superbly. “I was thinking about Annabelle Cranston. Remember her?”

Jesy’s hand fell away and the two women shared a dark look before turning back to him. “Course we remember her, Marcel.”

He nodded, hoping they’d continue without him having to prod. When they didn’t he sighed. “Have either of you heard from her since she left?”

“No,” Perrie said, the word tumbling from her lips like she’d been waiting for the question.

They dropped silent once more and Marcel nodded, nonsensically. What now? “Was she still dating Zayn right before she left? I couldn’t remember.”

The girls did that silent communication thing again. Then Jesy met his eyes. “Why are you asking, Marcel?”

He tugged at his collar, even though it was a clear tell. “Just… you know... reminiscing.”

Perrie gave him a tight smile. “I don’t really recall. They were on and off again so much…”

“Yeah,” Marcel said, licking his dry lips. “I thought they’d had a big row, just before. At school. Then a couple days later she was gone.”

Something flashed across Perrie’s face. “Think you might be mistaken.” There was an edge to the words, like it wasn’t a question.

“No, I actually remember that pretty well,” Marcel pushed not really sure where the courage was coming from. “Yeah, I do. It was right after homeroom and everyone was in the hallway.”

“They were a very passionate couple,” Jesy said, and then she looked down at her empty glass. “Oh, look at that, excuse me, please.”

Jesy slipped by Marcel without another word. Perrie moved to follow her, but Marcel stepped into her path. She looked up at him with raised brows.

“Did something happen to her Perrie?” he asked as quietly as he could. Perrie sucked in a breath and then her eyes flicked to a point beyond his shoulder before returning to his face.

“They broke up,” she said on a whisper. “Just before she left. They’d broken up.”

Excitement flared hot in his belly. Louis had been on to something. “Why?”

Perrie chewed on her lower lip. “She’d told him she was pregnant.”

Marcel reeled back, and Perrie seized her opening. She skirted around him in one smooth move. When he turned to watch her go, he felt eyes on him. He glanced around the room until he realized who had been watching their conversation.

Zayn Malik.

***

There was something about the Annabelle idea that had latched onto Louis. But that didn’t blind him to other possibilities. Which is how he found himself trapped in a conversation with Simon Cowell.

He’d disliked the man when they’d first met, and now he could tell he would despise him. He was an arrogant SOB who managed to turn every single thing back to something about himself while making snide comments about Louis at the same time.

Usually he was good at laughing that shit off. But with Simon Cowell, well, Louis wanted to land a really satisfying blow right to his face.

“So you’re interested in this property, I hear,” Louis finally decided to get to the point, cutting Simon off mid-thought.

Simon smirked. “You heard right.”

“Will you leave the mansion in place?”

Shaking his head, Simon glanced around. “This old thing? Hell no. I’m going to tear it down the minute the contract is signed.”

It could be over-confidence, but that definitely sounded like Simon thought he had the deal wrapped up. “I hadn’t realized you were in the process. I thought it wasn’t on the market yet.”

“Only a matter of time,” Simon said, sipping at his champagne. “Then it will be mine.”

There was a gleam in his eyes that was unsettling. “Must be pretty expensive,” Louis said, shoving his hands in his pockets. “With all that land and everything.”

“Money isn’t an issue.” Beneath the cool arrogance of the words was anger. Simon didn’t like being questioned on what he could afford.

Louis nodded. “Business booming then?”

Simon’s shoulders went back, defensive. “We’re doing very well, yes. Now if you’ll excuse me.”

Somehow he put just the right tone into the words to make it seem like he was too important to be wasting time talking to Louis.

Louis rolled his eyes and stepped out of his way. That had not been helpful, but it had been a box that needed to be checked.

He scanned the room. Marcel was back to talking with Shawn and Niall who still looked like a cute couple with the way they were leaning just a little bit against each other as they listened to Marcel.

Nick was refilling his glass, and Emily and Steve had moved from the sofa to the piano bench and were now sifting through sheet music. Jesy was nowhere in sight, but Louis trusted Liam to be tracking her, and Perrie was chatting with Gemma and Anne.

Simon had moved off to talk with the man he’d brought with him whom he’d called his business partner. Ben… something. Wilson. Or Winston. He looked just as smarmy as Simon. That didn’t mean they were responsible for the Incidents, but it didn’t help.

Zayn was over by the bookshelf, his fingers trailing along the leather-bound volumes while Ed leaned against the wall watching him.

Louis glanced over to Marcel who caught his eyes immediately. He tilted his head toward the duo. They might have better luck together. Marcel nodded and touched Shawn’s arm gently before starting to cross the room.

They managed to time it just right. Zayn had just reached the end of the shelves, stopping right where Ed was propped. Marcel swooped from one side, while Louis came in from the other.

“Find anything you’re interested in?” Marcel asked, and Louis smiled at him encouragingly. He knew this wasn’t the most natural thing to ask Marcel to do. Marcel who preferred the silence of his lab to any kind of socializing. Louis was kind of proud of him.

Zayn looked over his shoulder as Ed straightened. They both seemed a bit tense around the shoulders. Louis watched them carefully for any other tells, content to stay a bit behind Marcel so he could get a good view.

“A little dry for me, mate,” Zayn said and Ed laughed like he’d just told a joke. Louis could picture them in high school. Zayn the kid who was way-too-cool and Ed the sycophant yes-man who laughed and praised at all the right times.

Marcel nodded. “I understand they might be a little advanced for you.”

Louis smirked at that, enjoy the little jab. Marcel didn’t even slap his hand over his mouth after he said it. He wondered how mean these boys had been to him all those years ago to warrant this. It made him want to plant a scorpion in their beds just as he’d done with the bullies he’d had to deal with growing up. Fuckers.

Something told Louis that innuendo and double-talk wasn’t going to work with these two. So, he tried surprise. “I heard you guys liked to hang out in that forest behind the house when you were younger. Still ever do that?”

“Nah, man,” Zayn drawled, and Ed shook his head, glancing between Louis and Marcel.

“Sounds like fun, though,” Louis said, as if he wanted them to offer to take him back there.

“Maybe when we were teenagers,” Ed laughed as he spoke. “Not as fun now to freeze your balls off in the middle of the fucking woods.”

“Not that cold tonight,” Louis shrugged. “So you guys never come up here? When you’re not supposed to?”

They both flinched back a little from the blunt question.

“Nah, man,” Zayn said again. “Are you having trouble with trespassers?”

Ed nudged Zayn’s shoulder. “Someone put blood on Gemma’s wall a little while back, remember I was telling you about it.”

Zayn’s eyebrows lifted. “You think it’s us?”

Ed laughed again, but it died quickly. “No. You can’t… I’m...I’m a cop.”

Marcel tugged at his collar. “We’re not saying…”

He trailed off, and the four of them stood in awkward silence for the next minute.

“I’m gonna…” Zayn finally said and waved a hand. Without another word he walked off. Ed shook his head, looking at them both, and then followed him.

Fuck.

Marcel blew a little raspberry with his lips. “Well, that was pointless.”

Louis hummed low in his throat. “Not necessarily.”

He absently reached down to run a finger over Marcel’s wrist, hungry for contact after being separated all night. It was strange. They’d been spending their entire days together, and nights now as well. Louis had quickly come to crave Marcel’s presence.

Marcel leaned into Louis’ body for a heartbeat before they both stepped back.

“Tonight? My room?” Marcel whispered. “I have things to tell you.”

That got Louis’ attention, even if he’d been planning to knock on Marcel’s door no matter what. “Yes, of course.”

“I’m counting the minutes,” Marcel murmured then ducked his head to hide a blush that Louis could see anyway.

“Me too sweetheart,” Louis said, his lips nearly brushing Marcel’s jaw as he walked past him. “Me too.”


	11. Chapter 11

The second Marcel heard the soft knock on his door, he yanked it open, dragging Louis inside.

Without giving him a moment to breathe, Marcel crowded him back against the wood. “Lou.”

It had been a few hours since the last guests had left (Emily and Steve who had entered into several intense rounds of chess). Marcel knew Louis had been talking over the night with Liam, but Marcel had been anxiously pacing his room waiting for Louis to come to him.

“Sweetheart.” Louis’ hand slid up Marcel’s arm to curl around the nape of his neck. He pulled Marcel closer gently until their lips met. It was hot and desperate and had Marcel shifting his hips against Louis’.

“Wait,” Louis pulled back to nibble at the corner of Marcel’s mouth. “Lets go over the party first.”

Marcel stepped away, but couldn’t quite tamp down on his pout. He knew Louis was right, they had to talk. That didn't mean he had to like it.

It was just that ever since he’d allowed himself to have this, he had become greedy with want. But. He was an adult. He could control himself.

He crossed the room to put space between them. Because even if he was an adult who could control himself, he knew sitting on the bed with Louis would only lead to one thing. Instead, he plopped himself down in his desk chair, while Louis leaned back against the wall, his eyes crinkled at the corners in amusement.

“Alright, baby,” Louis said. “What did you learn?”

In his head he’d been turning over those few seconds with Perrie over and over again. “Zayn and Annabelle had broken up before she’d left because she told him she was pregnant.”

Louis sucked in air at that, his eyes going wide. A flash of pride shot through Marcel. He’d helped.

“Jesus,” Louis breathed out, then he zoned out a bit, his eyes going to a spot on the far wall. “Jesus.”

“What did you learn?” Marcel asked, not sure if it was alright to interrupt whatever thoughts were running through that quick and clever head of his.

“She was sleeping with someone else in the group,” Louis said slowly and this time it was Marcel that gasped. “The ‘group.’ Which would be…”

Marcel tried to think back exactly. “Uh, Annabelle, obviously. And then Zayn, Ed, Perrie and Jesy,” he said and Louis nodded, because of course he knew that. “Shawn went that one time. A girl named Bebe hung out with them sometimes, but she got married a few years back and left town. Then there was a couple kids who cycled, through. But that was probably the core group, yeah.”

“What if…” Louis trailed off and Marcel waited, not wanting to push him. “What if she had been pregnant? But it wasn’t Zayn’s.”

For once, Marcel felt like he was following Louis’ train of thought. “She confessed to cheating and to the baby, and Zayn ended it.”

“Annabelle told the dad next,” Louis said. “And he freaked out.”

“You think he killed her over it?” Marcel asked, the words feeling dramatic on his tongue. How had his life come to this? He was but a simple scientist. And here he was talking about murder with the private detective with whom he was having (really absolutely mind-blowing) sex. A week earlier the idea would have sent him into full-blown panic mode.

“Maybe it was an accident?” Louis suggested. “They were meeting in the woods, they get in a fight, maybe the person shoves her and she falls. If there was a firepit back there, she could have hit her head on the stones.”

“And they knew we were doing construction on the basement,” Marcel said. Maybe he was getting good at this. “They wouldn’t have even needed to dig a deep grave. Just enough to cover her up a bit if the timing was right. The builders were pouring concrete that summer.”

Louis ran a hand through his hair. “The person hears you’re putting the house up for sale and panics because everyone knows Simon Cowell is going to buy it and rip it down. They’ll find the body and maybe evidence along with it.”

Some of the excitement slipped from the moment. At the heart of this, if they were right, was a dead girl. They locked eyes across the room and took a beat to process all they’d just theorized.

“So what’s with the incidents?” Marcel finally asked, when he was no longer feeling a bit shaky.

Louis hummed. “The person needed time to move the body. They can’t just tear up your basement without you noticing. They wanted you gone for a certain amount of time between when you put the house on the market and when it sold.”

“They wanted to scare us out,” Marcel said. Hell.

Silence dropped again, and they stared at each other. Marcel was pretty sure his face was reflecting his shock.

“So... ,” Marcel finally managed to force out. “We find the actual father…”

“And we find our guy.”

***

Marcel had gone a bit pale, and Louis huffed out a breath. He was doing a fantastic job romancing his partner.

“Hey,” he said softly holding out his hand. “Let’s not think about it tonight, alright? There’s not much we can do right now.”

It was strange how much Louis wanted to put it all aside and just hold Marcel. Before he’d met the man, nothing would have ever derailed him from an investigation. But right now, soothing his boy seemed far more important than anything else in the world.

Marcel nodded and stood up, and they met in the middle of the room, Louis’ arms going around his waist. Everything in Louis relaxed at the contact, and it was only then he realized how needy he'd been for Marcel's touch. God, this felt so right.

A week ago, he would have scoffed at the notion that a tightly wound, buttoned up scientist  could have this effect on him. But here they were. And now that he’d had Marcel, not only in his bed but in his life, he really couldn’t see giving that up.

Which… scared the shit out of him. Mostly because he didn’t know what Marcel was thinking. Sure he seemed to like what they were doing (a lot) but that didn’t mean he wanted a relationship. Maybe he’d just needed someone to experiment with and the second Louis left Marcel would forget him.

The pain that accompanied the thought was sharp and unrelenting. He tried not to focus on it as he ran his hands along the hard planes of Marcel’s shoulder blades. He tried not to think about it as they shifted toward the bed and tumbled onto the mattress. He tried not to think about it as they stripped each other out of their clothes.

But he couldn’t ignore the way his heart beat when Marcel buried his head in the crook of his neck and whispered, “Can we… can you fuck me? Please?”

Louis swore, his hips grinding down against Marcel’s. Then he placed a gentle kiss against Marcel’s temple and fully admitted to himself that he was screwed. There was no letting this person go. Not now that Louis had found him. Whatever they had to do to make this work, Louis refused to let it be a temporary thing. If Marcel would have him, of course. He could probably to better than some working-class private detective whose pride and joy was a tiny office in Trenton, but here they were. 

Louis didn’t say any of that now of course, didn’t want to scare Marcel off.

It was a lot to ask. Louis wasn’t sure how willing Marcel was to buck society’s norms or his family’s expectations. Especially for Louis, someone he’d just met who he thought was a little strange at best.

But if there was even the smallest possibility that Marcel wanted to stay in his life, Louis was going to do everything in his power to keep him.

_Can you fuck me?_

“Yeah sweetheart, of course,” Louis murmured into his hair.

Marcel shyly informed Louis that there was a little vial of oil in the side dresser before he flung his arm over his face. Louis laughed and pressed his lips to Marcel’s elbow, before he rolled toward the drawer. True to Marcel’s word, there was a little tube sitting beneath some loose papers.

Louis dropped it on the bed next to Marcel’s hip, and then settled in between his legs. He pressed a palm to the underside of Marcel’s thigh, pushing it up, so that he was spread open beneath Louis’ hungry gaze. His hard cock, his balls, his ass, it was all on display, exposed and vulnerable and achingly beautiful.

There was a little whimper from above him and Louis glanced up. Marcel was a gorgeous pink color from his chest to his cheeks, and Louis was in awe of the amount of trust Marcel was placing in him right now.

“So pretty for me sweetheart,” Louis rushed to assure him, his lips against Marcel’s thigh. He sucked a quick bite to the sensitive skin and Marcel keened, his eyes still glued to Louis.

Louis took the opportunity to slick up a few of his fingers. If he thought too much about what he was going to do, he’d get overwhelmed. Arousal already pulsed through him, too much and too fast and too hot. So instead he focused on the mechanics of making sure he would be able to slip inside Marcel without hurting him.

Once he was positive Marcel was ready for him to start, Louis pressed a knuckle to the spot between Marcel’s asshole and his balls, drawing the loveliest sound from the man. He kept his free hand there as his oil-slicked fingers petted at Marcel’s gorgeous pink hole.

“So, so pretty,” Louis murmured, transfixed by the sight of the tight furl of muscle that fluttered beneath his explorations. Marcel whimpered, an endless stream of little noises that imprinted themselves on the pleasure center of Louis’ brain. Jesus. How was he going to survive actually fucking this boy?

“Please,” Marcel said, his first coherent word since Louis began stroking at his ass. Good manners deserved a reward, so Louis finally, finally, pushed past Marcel’s rim, sinking into his tight heat. It was so much, so fucking much, and this was just his finger.

Marcel bucked off the bed at the intrusion, his hips swiveling down to take even more of Louis’ finger into him.

“Easy sweetheart,” Louis whispered into the crease of his groin. There was a smile on his lips as he said it though and he hoped Marcel could feel that. He loved how responsive his boy was.

Once Marcel calmed down, Louis sunk his finger all the way into his tight ass. Then he pulled all the way out. The protest was loud when it came, and Louis reveled in both that and the way Marcel’s rim had clenched at him as he’d slipped out. Louis added a bit more oil, and then pressed back in.

He took it slow, working up to two fingers and then three. Marcel was panting hard by the time he crooked his knuckle just right so that he brushed against the bundle of nerves inside Marcel.

It was like Marcel had been touched by a live-wire. His back bowed off the bed, his hips pressing down onto Louis’s finger as his cock twitched where it lay thick and hard and leaking against his belly. 

Louis could resist it no longer. As Marcel collapsed back against the mattress, Louis shifted up until he could lap at the head of that beautiful dick. Just as he took Marcel completely in his mouth, Louis shifted his fingers again so that he was brushing against his prostate. Marcel shouted into the quiet of the night and Louis didn’t have the heart to shush him.

“Lou...fuck...now, now...,” Marcel babbled. “Want you in me.”

And. Yeah. Louis wanted that, too. He pulled off of Marcel’s cock and then slowly slipped his fingers out.

“Yeah, yes, alright sweetheart,” Louis murmured while slicking up his own dick.

His eyes roved over Marcel as he tugged at himself. The man was debauched. His lips were pink and plump, parted as he panted. His eyes were blown and his hair was sticky against his temples. His body was pale and long and beautiful and flushed a gorgeous rose, and his deliciously thick cock rested heavily against his belly, weeping at the tip.

What was even better, though, was that he was watching Louis with an intensity that made everything in his body go hot and tight and distracting.

Louis dipped down, his lips a breath away from Marcel’s. The boy had closed his eyes in anticipation of a kiss, but Louis paused. “You’re so fucking gorgeous, Marcel.”

Marcel’s lashes fluttered against his pale cheeks and his breathing hitched, but he didn’t say anything. And there was a bit of doubt in that silence.

This was it, this was the moment. Marcel was a virgin and he was letting Louis in, tearing down all those defenses he’d built around himself to keep from getting hurt. But he was so achingly vulnerable right now, spread open before Louis, not just in body but in soul as well.

It was the least Louis could do to acknowledge that, to reassure him that he wasn’t making a mistake by trusting Louis with himself.

“Marcel look at me,” Louis commanded, pulling back just enough so they weren’t cross-eyed.

When Marcel finally pried his lids open, Louis smiled down at him, and reached up to cup his face with his clean hand. “You are beautiful, sweetheart,” Louis said. “Thank you for trusting me with this. I won’t ever, ever hurt you. Alright?”

Marcel’s mouth parted in surprise. “Louis.”

Louis supported his weight on his forearm as he pushed his hand into the damp strands of hair that framed Marcel’s pretty face. “You deserve the world, sweetheart,” he murmured and then finally dipped down to kiss him. Their tongues were slick against each other’s. “I want to spend as much time as possible trying to give it to you.”

There was a moment when Louis shifted his weight again and they locked eyes and everything just kind of stopped.

This, this moment. This is the one Louis wanted to live in forever. But then Marcel blinked and it passed and the next moment he was surging up to capture Louis’ lips once more and, no, this, this was the moment he wanted to live in forever.

And then he was pressing inside hot, wet heat. Marcel’s eyes were damp as Louis inched forward until he was finally seated, buried deep in Marcel, his groin pressed tight against Marcel’s ass. The intimacy of it pulled tight in his chest.

This, this moment. It’s all he kept thinking as one second bled into the next, each better than the last.

But he thought his favorite might be when he reached down and grasped Marcel’s cock. It didn’t take long before Marcel’s face went lax and his body tightened and he was spurting against Louis’ fist, his ass milking Louis cock for all it was worth. Louis breathed through his teeth desperate to not miss even a single second of Marcel’s pleasure because of his own.

Marcel went limp against the bed and Louis held himself perfectly still. He couldn’t bring himself to pull out just yet, despite the fact that he knew Marcel must be sensitive.

“Finish,” Marcel murmured through lethargic lips. “Want to feel you come inside me.”

Fucking christ. The plea set fire to Louis. His hips snapped against Marcel’s, completely losing his rhythm. In some fit of madness, he ran his fingers through the come on Marcel’s chest and brought his hand to Marcel’s mouth.

Without any hesitation, Marcel sucked Louis’ come-covered fingers in, lapping at his own seed, hollowing his cheeks and meeting Louis’ eyes as he hummed low in his throat.

It was fucking obscene how beautiful he looked, and it sent Louis over the edge. On his final erratic thrust, he pressed his groin against Marcel and came deep inside his ass. There was something so primal about it that Louis collapsed onto Marcel and sunk teeth into the delicate skin of his lover’s neck as Louis’ body was racked with waves of pleasure.  

His mind was hazy with it, even as he held on tight and Marcel whimpered beneath him.

Finally, finally, the onslaught started to fade and Louis released Marcel’s neck, kissing the spot that was sure to bruise before gently pulling out of him.

“That was incredible,” Louis laughed as he collapsed to the bed beside Marcel. “Best moment of my fucking life.”

Marcel hummed, his lips moving but no words coming out. His eyelids were heavy and he was watching Louis with a little smile at the edges of his lips. Warmth blossomed in Louis’ chest and spread outward, making his body all hot and tingly and happy.

This fucking boy.

Louis gathered him close, pressing kisses into his hair. “You are perfect. So perfect for me darling. So pretty, so lovely. So, so lovely.”

He kept up the endless string of praise, as Marcel’s wet and open mouth settled against his collarbones.

They drifted off to sleep with their hearts pressed to each other’s.


	12. Chapter 12

It was late, or early depending on how you looked at it, when Marcel roused. He glanced at the grandfather clock in the corner of the room and could make out that it was about two in the morning.

His body ached with a dull pain that he’d never experienced before, and he loved it. He loved the memory of Louis pushing into him, of Louis stretching muscles that had never been touched like that. He loved replaying the moment Louis had come, his beautiful face drawn tight his hips pressing deep into Marcel like he wanted to stay there forever.

Tears pressed at the corners of his eyes as he remembered the feeling of connection. They had been so close to each other in that moment, so open and so vulnerable, that Marcel didn’t think they could ever go back.

Maybe that was naive to think. Maybe Louis fucked a different boy every week and Marcel wasn’t special. But the way he’d promised not to hurt Marcel, the loving words he’d whispered until they’d fallen asleep, those told a different story. One of permanence and belonging. One that could maybe turn into forever.

He breathed deep, trying not to jostle Louis. It was terrifying that idea. Mostly because he wasn’t sure if he was reading too much into Louis’ actions that had come in the heat of the moment. What if Marcel fell and Louis just walked away? What would happen to his heart then?

Just thinking about it caused his pulse to race and his breathing to turn shallow. God, he wished Louis was awake to reassure him. But he wasn’t. He was sleeping, his arms loose around Marcel, his mouth lax, his face peaceful.

Knowing there was no way he’d go back to sleep now, Marcel pecked a little kiss to the sharp edge of Louis’ cheekbone and then gently extracted himself from the man’s hold.

If he wasn’t going to be able to rest, he might as well work. As much as he enjoyed investigating with Louis (once he’d realized they weren’t just chasing ghosts) it wasn’t leaving much time for his other projects.

He shoved his feet into the slippers that were laid out next to the bed and then, as quiet as possible, tip-toed toward the door. When he made it into the hallway without a peep from the lump behind him, he breathed a sigh of relief.

The tension that was holding his body in its tight grasp would fade once he made it to his lab where he could let his mind toil over formulas instead of wondering over and over and over again if a certain blue-eyed gorgeous sprite liked him back.

Later he would blame that concern for distracting him on the way down into the basement, because it wasn’t until his feet hit the concrete that he realized he wasn’t alone.

Marcel froze on the spot, as the person who was cloaked in shadows turned his way, Marcel’s own surprise reflecting back on the man’s face.

“Shawn,” Marcel breathed as his mind caught up with what was happening.

His best friend. His best friend was standing there with a sharp looking tool and hammering away at Marcel’s basement floor. Shit, shit, shit. He wanted to cry, wanted to break down on the spot. “No.”

“Fuck. Marcel,” Shawn said, letting the equipment fall to the floor with a clatter. In some distant part of Marcel’s brain he hoped that it was enough to wake Louis up so that he could come deal with this and Marcel wouldn’t have to face down his best fucking friend standing here and everything that meant.

It was because his mind was busy rejecting the idea that Shawn was their bad guy that Marcel missed him pulling a gun from the pocket of his jacket. Then all of a sudden he was staring down a cold, metallic barrel.

“Wh-what?” He managed to get out.

“You’re not supposed to be down here now,” Shawn said, his voice apologetic. There was a sadness about his eyes that Marcel wanted to soothe. As soon as the thought came, he pushed it away. Shawn was holding a gun on him. He didn’t deserve sympathy.

“I’m sorry,” Marcel said nonsensically.

Shawn blinked. “Fuck.”

Then they just stared at each other.

“Shawn,” Marcel finally said. “Why?”

The corners of the man’s lips tightened, tipping downward. But he didn’t say anything, just shifted closer so he’d have a better shot.

Marcel’s mind raced and his eyes darted to the side, trying to figure out what he could do if Shawn’s finger tightened on the trigger. Shawn’s gaze followed the movement for a second before snapping back to Marcel’s face.

That was interesting. He was clearly on edge as well. Marcel tested his theory, shifting a little to the left, further into the shadows. Shawn’s arm jolted far more than the small step warranted. He steadied the gun quickly, but it had clearly caught him off guard. Marcel wondered if he could nudge him enough to get him to drop the weapon.

“Annabelle,” Marcel said, letting the name hang heavily between them.

Shawn’s eyes narrowed. “Your fucking investigator.”

Louis. God, Marcel couldn’t think about him right now. Couldn’t think about how Louis would feel if he woke up to find Marcel shot dead in the basement. With the way Louis took on responsibility, Marcel wondered if he would ever recover. Not because he loved Marcel, but because he would blame himself.

Marcel couldn’t let that happen. So he shut down his emotions. Louis couldn’t exist right now.

“Did you kill her Shawn?” Marcel asked and took a small step, to the right this time. The wild swing of Shawn’s arm was slightly less erratic and his face relaxed quicker than it had before.

Shawn swallowed hard. “If you all had just …”

“Left?” Marcel guessed when the man trailed off. He took a tiny step to the side and Shawn blinked, but only shifted his aim a little.

“Yeah,” Shawn sighed. “None of this had to happen.”

“None of this would have happened if you hadn’t killed her, Shawn,” Marcel said, using his name as much as possible. Humanizing them both. This time he shuffled forward, just a half step. Shawn’s eyes narrowed, but he didn’t react much more than that.

“I didn’t… I didn’t mean to,” Shawn finally said, and the barrel drooped for a minute before snapping back up.

“She was pregnant,” Marcel prodded. “You’d been hanging out with her. You didn’t tell me.”

Shawn laughed a little. “Have it all figured out don’t you, Marcey?”

Marcel flinched at the mockery he heard in the tone. But he hardened himself against it. This was no longer his best friend. This was a cold-blooded killer who didn’t seem like he would hesitate to pull the trigger.

“Not quite,” he murmured. “But almost.”

There was another little puff of air that might have been called laughter under different circumstances. “It was that one night.”

“The night you went with them to the woods,” Marcel said, shifting forward again. If he could just get close enough to tackle Shawn he would have the element of surprise on his side.

“We had English together,” Shawn said. “She borrowed my notes one time.”

“And it was love,” Marcel murmured unable to stop himself.

But Shawn just smirked. “Not quite. But she invited me that night to make Zayn jealous. I didn’t even care, you know? We fucked in the woods after she told me she and Zayn had never had sex.”

Marcel’s brows shot up. That’s how she’d known the baby wasn’t Zayn’s, then.

“You stopped going, though,” Marcel said.

Shawn shrugged. “It was fun for a one-time thing. I wasn’t going to marry the girl.”

“She turned up pregnant, though,” Marcel said and moved a bit to the left. Shawn didn’t react.

“Yeah, she’d been hounding me for weeks to meet up with her,” Shawn shook his head. “Then she and Zayn had that fight. She begged me to go with her to the woods, and she told me.”

Marcel nodded like he understood. “You didn’t mean to kill her.”

Surprise flashed across the man’s face. “No.”

“Did she fall?” Maybe it had been a complete accident. But there was guilt and shame there in the way Shawn hunched into himself.

No, even if he hadn’t meant to do it, Shawn had played a part in her death.

“She attacked me,” Shawn said, his voice tight. “I pushed her.”

“And she fell?” It was scary how accurate Louis’ hypothesis had been. “Why didn’t you just call the cops?”

“You think they’d have believed me? Remember who the sheriff was? Ed’s dad,” Shawn said. “He loved Annabelle. He would have locked me up for life.”

You deserved that. Marcel pressed his lips together to keep from spilling his thoughts. They wouldn’t do any good here.

“Why our house?” Marcel asked, for no other reason than to delay the inevitable.

Shawn shrugged. “They might have found her if I buried her in the woods.”

Fuck. He’d been best friends with a psychopath all this time. He wanted nothing more than to curl in a ball and rock back and forth. No. He wanted to curl himself into Louis’ arms and have those strong, calm hands stroking soothing circles on his back. If he survived this, which was looking less and less likely with how forthcoming Shawn was being, he would live in the warmth of Louis’ embrace for days until his heartbeat returned to normal and his thoughts were no longer five paces behind. He shifted again.

“What are you going to do, Shawn?” Marcel asked, not sure if it was stupid to remind the man he was holding a gun on Marcel and confessing all his deepest secrets. But there was little else to say.

Shawn pressed his lips together. “I was hoping it wouldn’t come to this.”

Marcel shook his head. “The shot is going to wake everyone up. Even now, there’s someone walking the hallways on guard for intruders.”

Panic flashed across Shawn’s face before it was replaced with confidence. “They won’t hear it down here,” he said. “They might find you in the morning, but I have a plan for that.”

“Why didn’t you just leave town before?” Marcel asked shuffling forward. By this point, he’d managed to half the distance between them without Shawn really taking note.

Shawn shook his head. “All I needed was to get to her body. That’s all I needed to do. Then no one would have known.”

“You made a mistake in trying to scare us,” Marcel said, stating the obvious. He tried to calculate the ways he could throw his body at Shawn to get his shot to go wild. They were obviously winding down the chatting part of the evening.

Everything about Shawn went sharper and Marcel realized his error. Shawn didn’t like that they’d brought Louis in. Louis who had figured out almost every piece of the puzzle and how it fit.

“That fucking dick,” Shawn muttered. “Alright, here’s what we’re going to do. You’re going to write out a little letter confessing to killing Annabelle all those years ago. You’re going to say you couldn’t live with the guilt any longer.”

“Staged suicide,” Marcel whispered. And, there was a kind of brilliance to the plan. It wrapped up all the loose ends.

“I’m sorry, Marcel,” Shawn said, and he sounded genuinely sad again. Marcel shook his head at the thought. “I didn’t mean for it to come to this.”

“You certainly were prepared for it though, weren’t you?” It was now or never. Marcel bent his knees and prepared to launch himself at Shawn. In the last moment before he did it he closed his eyes and let himself think of Louis. Let himself remember the warmth of his arms, the rasp of his voice, the press of his cock inside Marcel, the closeness he’d felt after their last lovemaking. He breathed deep. Louis.

When he opened his eyes, Shawn was watching him, but with a distracted air. Marcel shifted one last time, just to check to make sure Shawn wasn’t about to press down on the trigger with the slightest movement.

Louis, he let himself think.

Then he threw his body toward Shawn, toward the gun.

***

Louis woke with a start. Something was wrong.

His mind was sleep heavy, though, and he couldn’t quite figure it out. He wiped the back of his hand over his mouth and rolled to his back. The sheets were cool against his skin and it was then he realized. There should have been a fiery little furnace tucked up against him.

Instead he was in bed alone.

He blinked, sitting up, his bleary eyes taking in the room. Moonlight spilled onto the carpet, illuminating the fact that Marcel wasn’t hunched over his desk or leaning against the windowsill or any of the other thousands of places he could be other than the bed.

The room was empty besides Louis.

Something heavy settled in the bottom of Louis’ gut. Not panic necessarily, but maybe its close cousin. Why had Marcel left? If it had been a quick trip to the bathroom or the kitchen, the sheets wouldn’t be cold right now. His body wouldn’t be cold right now.

Louis swallowed hard against a mouth that had gone dry. Liam was patrolling the hallways. If anything had happened he would be there to help Marcel.

The reassurance did little to soothe his anxiety, though.

This was silly, he was being silly. But still he pushed out of bed, pulling on an undershirt and a pair of boxers as he did.

He crossed the room and then slipped out into the hallway. The house was so silent, so still that all Louis could hear was the blood rushing in his own eardrums.

It was as he was making his way down the stairs that he realized he was being as quiet as he could be. It was probably stupid. He was probably going to find Marcel in the kitchen or in his lab scribbling away at notes because he couldn’t sleep. But just in case, Louis skipped over the step that had the squeaky floorboard.

He kept to the shadows as he made his way through the lower level of the mansion. By the time he got to the back hallway, his pulse was racing and all his senses were heightened. The door to Marcel’s lab was cracked open, and Louis knew he never left it like that, preferring to keep it closed at all times.

He sidled up to it, trying to make the least amount of noise as possible. As he got closer he could hear voices and fuck. This was happening. He, as gently as possible, nudged the door open.

“I didn’t mean to,” a voice that wasn’t Marcel’s said. Louis flashed hot and then cold at the idea of his boy trapped in the basement with a killer.

“She was pregnant.” This time it was Marcel who spoke. Fuck a fucking duck. Marcel was down there. Louis pressed his lips together. Now was not the time to panic.

Very slowly he slipped through the crack of the door and then paused on the top step. From where he crouched he could make out the back of Marcel and the shape of another man. As his eyes adjusted to the low light he saw a glint of metal and nearly threw up on the spot. Marcel had a gun pointed at him. A bullet could rip through his precious chest at the least provocation and all Louis would be able to do was watch as the man he adored bled out from the wound.

He blinked hard. This spiralling wasn’t helpful. He swallowed against the bile that threatened to press up against his throat and concentrated on the man who was holding the weapon.

Shawn. His mind caught up, slow because of the way it had been shrieking Marcel and gun over and over again.

His heart broke for his baby. But then he realized he needed to move. Immediately.

The stairs weren’t an option. Shawn would have the upper hand, and would probably move swiftly to take Marcel hostage. That meant Louis had to come up with another plan.

There had to be something. _Think, think, think._

His mind raced with the possibilities. The map. The fucking map. As soundlessly as he could he slipped back out of the crack in the door and into the hallway. He ran, still trying to muffle his movements lest he alert the madman holding a gun on Marcel that someone else was awake in the house.

By the time he got to his room he was panting. He rushed to his desk where he’d thrown the paper earlier in the day. The map.

He smoothed a shaking hand over the creased drawing. It was of the house. But more importantly it was of all the secret passageways that were buried in the very walls of the place.

His finger traced over Marcel’s pencil sketch until he found what he was looking for. There. A secret stairwell. He closed his eyes picturing how Shawn and Marcel had been standing in the basement. The door to the passageway would be right behind the madman.

Once he was sure of his plan, he stuffed the paper into the back waistband of his boxers. Then he grabbed his gun. Right before he left the room he circled back for the iron poker that rested beside the fireplace. Sometimes a simple weapon could make all the difference.

Clutching both that and his gun, he slipped back into the hallway. He considered trying to find Liam for backup but with the way the conversation had been going downstairs he wasn’t sure if he had time. If he showed up a minute too late to save Marcel he would never be able to live with himself.

So, instead of going to reinforcements he found the small closet that had been marked on the map. He pushed aside towels and blankets until his fingers found the little latch that opened the entranceway to the secret staircase.

The passageway was dark and littered with spiderwebs. But Louis had one thought and one thought only: get to Marcel.

It felt like it took an eternity to work his way down multiple flights but eventually he could hear voices again. Shawn.

But more importantly, Marcel. Which meant he was still alive.

Once his feet hit the even ground, he moved more cautiously. He couldn’t make out the words yet, but the voices were loud enough to confirm that he was where he was supposed to be. He crept closer to the wall.

There was a small crack in the plaster and the low light from the lab spilled into the darkness of the passageway. He wished the paranoid former owner had thought to install lamps in the hallway, but really he was just grateful for the small interruption of the pure blackness. He moved so that he could peer through the opening.

_Marcel._

He could see his gorgeous boy so very clearly. He was pale, but he was upright, facing down a gun. Pride mingled with terror in his chest as his heart tried to beat out of his ribcage. If anything happened to Marcel…

But also, the strength he was showing right now made Louis want to cuddle him up and whisper endless praise into his soft skin.

Marcel was fidgeting, though, and Louis almost wished he wouldn’t. He was shifting from foot to foot as he talked with Shawn, stepping closer and then further away. Louis worried all the movement would set Shawn on edge, but the man didn’t even seem to be registering it.

And, oh. It was part of Marcel’s strategy, it had to be. Because he wasn’t tugging at his collar or pushing his glasses up or tangling his fingers in the hem of his shirt. Those were nervous ticks. This was deliberate.

Ok, baby. What are you planning?

Louis tried to keep up, tried to think. What would he do in that situation?

Surprise.

It was the only thing they had on their side. And Marcel thought he was alone. Of course he was going to try something.

But instead of turning and fleeing as Shawn might have expected, he was going to charge forward. Louis felt it in his gut alongside the ice that settled there at the thought of Marcel throwing himself at a gun.

So get there first.

Yes, he had to. He had to be the element of surprise that Marcel was clearly trying to capture. He gripped the handle of the poker. Timing was going to be everything.

It was almost laughable how easy it was to tell when Marcel was going to make his move. He closed his eyes, longer than a blink but almost short enough to not be noticeable. Lous desperately wanted to know what he was thinking. But now was not the time. Louis’ fingers fumbled for the latch so that he would be ready. He cracked the door and it was blessedly silent as it slid open a centimeter.

Then Marcel opened his eyes. He shifted one more time, his gaze focused on Shawn’s face.

This was it. Louis took a deep breath. Then he pushed the door open just as Marcel threw his body at Shawn.

Louis screamed as loud as he could just to add to the confusion and Shawn’s arm flew up, wild and out of control. But the barrel was no longer pointed at Marcel’s chest and something in Louis uncoiled at that fact.

It was at that moment that Marcel slammed full force into Shawn taking them both to the ground.

A shot rang out against the quiet of the night, and Louis felt something burning along his shoulder. But it didn’t matter. What mattered was that he needed to get to Marcel.

Louis’ grip on his gun had gone lax, but he could still clearly feel the weight of the poker in his left hand. It took three strides for him to get close enough to the bodies grappling on the concrete floor.

“Marcel move away,” Louis said, putting as much authority as he could into his voice.

The minute the command left his mouth, Marcel rolled onto his back leaving Shawn open for attack. In one swift move, Louis brought the iron poker down onto his skull without a moment’s hesitation.

Shawn’s body went limp as the metal connected with bone.

Even as the man’s eyes fluttered shut, though, Louis didn’t drop his focus. He just brought the poker back up above his head, ready to swing again if necessary.

But Shawn didn’t move, and a thin red line trickled down the side of his face.

That’s when Marcel gasped. Louis turned to him, ready to gather him in his arms and tell him how proud Louis was of him. But the look on Marcel’s face halted any of that.

It was horror, pure and simple.

“What?” Louis managed, but then he felt it. A burning sensation that started in his shoulder and spread downward. His gun clattered to the floor and he dropped the hand that had been holding the poker.

“Louis,” Marcel’s voice was ravaged with pain. Fuck, he wanted to hug his baby. But first there was this to deal with.

In that moment he decided he needed to look. Once he did, he closed his eyes knowing it would be a long time before he forgot the sight of his red-stained shirt and the mangled flesh that once was his collarbone and now was a bullet hole.

He sank to his knees with as much grace as he could muster. His entire body was cold. “Marcel,” he whispered, and then sat back on his haunches. He was seconds away from collapsing to the floor completely.

“Don’t you fucking die on me Louis Tomlinson,” he heard, even as his eyes slid shut. “I won’t ever fucking forgive you if you do.”

Louis’ body was numb, the pain just a memory now. “My ghost is going to haunt you, Marcel Styles.”

“Not fucking funny,” he heard Marcel say and then he was being lifted.

The darkness consumed him after that.


	13. Chapter 13

There was nothing as utterly devoid of life as a hospital hallway. The walls were bland, the fluorescent lights were harsh, the air was tinged with antiseptic erasing all traces of humans.

Marcel was about to punch a wall just to see something bleed. Namely, his own hand. Maybe the pain would have helped. Maybe the pain would let him think about something other than Louis’ pale face as Marcel had cradled his limp body, standing in the middle of the ER’s entryway, screaming for help.  

“He’s going to be alright,” Anne said, from where she was sitting, watching him pace.

‘You don’t know that,” Marcel said, without looking at her. She didn’t _know_ that. He’d been running the statistics since they’d taken Louis away. There was a chance he could die, and Anne trying to say there wasn’t defied logic.

“I have faith,” Anne said quietly now. He whirled on her, ready to tear down that faith, ready to curse her for believing in this moment when Louis could be dead. But the look on her face killed the words before they left his mouth.

Instead he crumpled on the spot.

His knees hit the unrelenting linoleum but he didn’t feel the pain. There was a tightness in his chest, the kind that came right before an attack and he tried to fight it off because he didn’t want this moment to be about him. But all he could think about was Louis and all that blood and the idea of losing something and someone he had just found.

Anne was on him in a second, her arms coming around his shoulders. Breathe she kept murmuring, rubbing at his back. Maybe she thought he was overwhelmed from his ordeal in the basement. Maybe she knew the truth. Either way, it didn’t matter. She was there, like she’d always been there.

The sobs when they came were painful, wet and thick and lodging in his throat. He cried for himself and his best friend. He cried for Annabelle. And he cried for the man lying in the surgery room caught between life and death.

“I can’t...I can’t lose him,” Marcel finally gasped out, each word a shard of glass, slicing the softness of his mouth. Admitting it should have been huge, but it didn’t feel that way. It felt like a sigh of relief.

Anne’s hands paused their careful circles, but then started up again almost immediately. “He seems like a fighter.”

And that. That Marcel could agree with.

It took four more hours before the doctor came out. By that time Liam had joined them in the waiting room, his face pale, his hands shaky. They locked eyes but didn’t say anything. Marcel continued to pace instead, waving off offers of coffee and food.

Still, Marcel was grateful for Liam when the doctor informed them that Louis was stable and likely going to pull through. Marcel sagged into Liam’s shoulders and the boy’s arms immediately came around Marcel to steady him.

The minute the words were out, he’d gone light-headed and hazy. The doctor was saying other things, but all Marcel needed to hear was that Louis was going to be alright. He completely surrendered his weight to Liam who took it without blinking.

The tears started again without his permission. But he let them run unchecked down his cheeks as Anne and Liam thanked the man. They were told Louis needed rest but they could see him when he woke up.

“He’s alright,” Liam said, patting Marcel’s shoulder but making no moves to unwind his arm from Marcel’s waist. Marcel was thankful as he wasn’t sure his legs would hold him. He nodded to show he’d heard.

“Why don’t you go home, Mrs. Styles,” Liam was saying. “I’ll look after Marcel and make sure he gets home after he sees Louis.”

Marcel shook his head. “I’m not going home.”

Liam and Anne exchanged a look and he could tell they were communicating silently about him, but he didn’t care. If Louis was in this stinking hospital, Marcel would be too. That was the end of that.

Anne hugged him before she left, pulling him tight against her body. “I love you so very much Marcey,” she whispered. “We’ll talk when you come home. But. You picked a good one.”

Marcel almost started crying again, but he thought maybe his tear ducts had gone dry with overuse. He blinked hard instead and buried his face in her neck. “I love you, too, mom.”

At the end of the day, it wouldn’t have mattered what Anne had said. If Louis would have Marcel, there wasn’t going to be anything that stood in his way. But her complete approval made the fist that had clenched itself tight around his heart relax.

Then it was just him and Liam, camped out on uncomfortable chairs. At some point, Liam had gone to get supplies, but Marcel again rejected the offer of food when he held out a sad little tray of whatever was being served in the cafeteria.

“You know he acts tough,” Liam said on Hour Two. Marcel had been staring at the wall trying not to think about hospital infection rates and gunshot wounds.

“What?”

“Louis,” Liam hummed while eyeing the colorless mush on his plate. There was steel in his voice though and Marcel straightened. This was important. “He acts like nothing bothers him. Like the insults roll off his back. But. He’s kind of a marshmallow underneath.”

Marcel’s fingers tangled at the hem of his sweater. “I know.”

Liam nodded, still not looking at Marcel. “He likes helping people, the most, you know? I know you’re not big on the ghost stuff, but it’s not just about … paranormal for him. He honestly wants to help people.”

“I’m...I’m getting that,” Marcel stuttered feeling utterly ashamed for how he’d acted those first few days. “I’m sorry. If I made you feel... less than valued. I know you were helping us.”

Liam shrugged one shoulder, but Marcel could tell he hadn’t liked it. His face flushed with regret. “It is what it is. That’s what Louis always says.” Liam finally looked at him, one side of his lips lifted in a sardonic smile. “Just. I don’t think you’re an asshole. But. I just wanted you to know that. That he deserves better than someone who doesn’t think he’s the fucking sun.”

“Do you…?” The prospect of Liam loving Louis made his heart thud in his chest.

That’s when Liam’s entire demeanor lightened. “Ha. No. I would if you know I swung that way. But no. I just … was giving you the best friend talk.”

Marcel’s shoulders slumped in relief. “I really...I think he’s probably one of the best people I’ve ever met,” Marcel said, slowly. It wasn’t easy for him to share his thoughts with someone who was essentially a stranger. “I don’t know what he wants. But if he wants me, I’ll make sure he never doubts that for a second.”

They were almost whispering even though they were the only ones in the room. Liam held his gaze, and Marcel couldn’t breathe under the intensity of it. But then the other man nodded once and smiled. “I’m glad you pulled your head out of your ass.”

It was said kindly and Marcel laughed for the first time in what felt like an eternity. “Me too.”

That’s when a nurse stepped into the room. Both he and Liam leapt to their feet.

“Louis can see you now.”

***

The ceiling was white and swirly.

Louis blinked trying to stop it from spinning, but that seemed to just make it worse.

“Mr. Tomlinson,” a voice from far away called to him. He shut his eyes. He didn’t want to answer, all he wanted to do was sleep.

The darkness beckoned him and he slipped into it with just the niggling thought that he better come back. There was someone waiting for him.

When he surfaced once more, his mouth was dry and his tongue heavy. The ceiling was still swirly and spinning, but the voices had gotten closer.

“We’re going to …”

“Is he awake?”

“No…”

“He’s blinking…”

They sounded stressed, and Louis had no desire to stick around to hear them finish the conversation. This time when he slipped under that someone had a name. Marcel.

***

“Water.” His mouth was so dry, so dry. He tried swallowing but his throat was useless without anything to moisten it.

There was something blessedly cold and solid slipped between his lips. Ice chips, his sluggish brain helpfully supplied before everything when black again.

By the fourth time, he no longer felt like his eyelids had little weights on them. He blinked and then blinked again, and the ceiling was no longer swirly.

This time oblivion’s siren call was muted. Instead _Marcel_ sounded louder in his head, while he tried to figure out what the fuck was going on.

“What?” It was all he could manage. But then there was a very smiley nurse leaning over him.

“Oh, Mr. Tomlinson, you’re with us again,” she said happily before reaching out of sight and coming back with another pillow. She shoved it under his head so that he was a little propped up. “Here’s some water. We have some guests who will be very relieved to hear you’re awake.”

Marcel.

“Oh yes, I think that’s his name,” the nurse said and he realized he must have murmured it out loud. He was still a little dizzy.

“What happened?” he asked and then shifted. Pain shot through his collarbone and down his arm.

The nurse’s face turned serious. “You were shot, dear,” she said. “But thankfully your friend acted quickly. We managed to repair your arm and you should regain full use of your shoulder.”

Your friend. Marcel. The basement. Shawn.

“Can I…,” he licked dry lips. “Can I see him?”

“Of course,” the nurse was bustling around at the foot of his bed. “We’re just going to get you checked out by the doctor first, alright hun?”

It took about another hour before someone finally let Marcel into the room.

The boy peeked his head around the door first, and everything in Louis exhaled at the sight of him. He was whole, he was alive, he was alright.

When Marcel saw Louis he squeaked and rushed to his bedside, looking like he wanted nothing more in the world than to crawl into it beside Louis. Instead, he pulled a chair up and clasped Louis’ hand in his large palms.

Then they just stared at each other, both taking in the other’s face, body, limbs. Checking again and again to make sure they were alright.

Louis noticed Marcel’s eyes were red-rimmed. Even now his eyes were damp and his breathing was shallow as if he was doing a shitty job at containing his emotions. Louis rubbed his thumb over Marcel’s knuckles to let him know it was okay.

“I thought you were going to die,” Marcel finally said, and the words came out all wet and wobbly.

“And leave you?” Louis laughed a little to try to break the tension. It’s what he did. “Never.”

That seemed to push Marcel over the edge instead of helping the situation because all of a sudden he was taking deep, gasping breaths.

“Breathe, baby.”

Marcel’s eyes were wide as they traced over Louis’ face. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

Louis wanted to pull him onto the mattress next to him, but he guessed that would not sit will with the nursing staff. “I’m alright, Marcel. Not joining the ghost world just quite yet.”

Pressing his lips together, Marcel seemed to try to gather himself. Louis just continued to stroke his hand.

They sat in silence for a little and Louis just watched Marcel as Marcel watched him.

Then the boy shifted, squeezing Louis’ hand tighter. “I thought of you, you know.”

“Hmmm?”

“Down there. In the basement,” Marcel said, his voice going scratchy. Louis wanted to cuddle him and make the bad memories just go away. “When I knew I was going to have to do something. I thought. I thought… there was a strong possibility that I was going to die.”

Louis protested, a little sound that caught in his throat, as his heart skipped a beat.

Marcel nodded through it. “I thought I was going to die. And I thought about you.”

They locked eyes then, and maybe this wasn’t the best time for this conversation, both of them high on adrenaline and about to crash from the overload of emotions. But it was going to happen anyway.

“I think that means something,” Marcel finished, when Louis didn’t say anything.

“I thought of you,” Louis whispered, pushing his head back against the pillows. “In here. I thought of you. Each time I went under. I knew you were waiting for me.”

A sob escaped Marcel’s lips and he pressed his fist to his mouth for a moment. “Louis.”

Louis tore his eyes away from the sight, staring at the ceiling once more. This was madness, he knew. But what in this life wasn’t?

“Shawn?” he asked instead of saying any of the words that pushed at his chest.

There was a beat. “He’s alive. The police came. He didn’t confess, but once they start digging and find the body…”

Louis licked his lips. “So we solved the case.”

“We solved the case,” Marcel agreed, his voice small.

“I’m sorry,” Louis shifted once more to look at Marcel again. He was watching Louis with big, damp eyes. And he was so achingly pretty, Louis hurt with it.

Marcel shook his head. “It’s going to take me a while before I can sleep without nightmares. But, I’ll be alright. Eventually.”

“I could…” Louis started, stopped. This was such a huge leap, but it no longer really felt like one. It felt...inevitable. “I’ll be there. To hold you when you have those nightmares.” There was a beat of silence where everything in Louis crumbled. “If you want.”

Marcel tugged his bottom lip between his teeth, his fingers a vice against Louis’ hands. “I want that more than anything in the world.”


	14. Chapter 14

**EPILOGUE  
** _One Year Later_

Louis propped his feet on his desk as he watched the doorknob to his office turn.

It was dark outside and Liam was long gone for the day. They didn’t have any more clients booked, which Louis was happy about. It had been a long couple hours.

The man stepped into the room hesitantly, his fingers toying with the belt of his raincoat. “Hello?” he called, his voice a little shaky. Louis was used to that. People seeking his services were usually a bit nervous.

“Can I help you?” Louis asked, his eyes devouring the man’s face. It was bathed in moonlight and was the prettiest fucking thing Louis had ever seen.

“I need your help,” the man said stepping forward with a little swing of his hips. He was gaining confidence and Louis swallowed a smirk.

“Oh yeah?” Louis dropped his feet to the floor, he ran a finger along the brim of his fedora. “Tell me, gorgeous. What’s a pretty little thing like you doing in a place like this?”

Marcel giggled, breaking character. “That’s so cheesy, Lou.”

Shaking his head as if disappointed, Louis tried to continue with the charade, knowing it would make Marcel laugh more than if he dropped the act. “I am quite versatile, gorgeous. Let me know what I can help you with, and I’ll do my best to satisfy your needs.”

Just like he’d predicted amusement sparked fiercely behind Marcel’s glasses, but then he slipped back into character. He crossed the room like he was born to draw eyes. His legs were long and lean beneath the trench, his hips narrow where it pinched in at the belt. His face was determined.

“Oh, Mr. Tomlinson,” he said breathily as he propped his ass on Louis’ desk. “Can you really? Satisfy my needs?”

Marcel bit his lip when he said it, and drew off his glasses, and Louis was fucked. He surged to his feet, and only stopped when Marcel placed a hand on his chest. Heat coiled in his groin as his eyes flicked over his boyfriend’s face.

“I don’t think you’ll be disappointed in what I have to offer,” Louis said, his fingers playing with the hem of the trench coat. He suspected something, but didn’t want to let his mind go there yet.

Marcel fell back against his elbow, leaving himself splayed open on Louis’ desk. It was right out of a wet dream.

“Mr. Tomlinson,” Marcel giggled. “But how will I thank you for your services?”

Louis growled low in his throat, stepping into the v created by Marcel’s legs. “I bet we can think of something.”

“Mmmm,” Marcel said. And then in one swift move, he pulled at the belt of the trench and shrugged his shoulders. The coat fell open and off him, revealing his nearly-naked body beneath.

The sight almost had Louis swallowing his tongue. He’d expected Marcel to be wearing nothing beneath the clunky fabric, but what he’d found instead was his boyfriend clad in a lacy pair of black panties.

“Fuck,” Louis whispered, completely done with their game. He wanted this to be them, to be real, to be everything. “Marcel, sweetheart.”

The emotion must have been thick in his voice, because Marcel blushed so prettily in the moonlight that Louis wanted to sink into him and never let him go.

He reached out a trembling hand to trace the very edge of the panties, where lace met silky skin. The tip of Marcel’s beautiful cock was peeking over the top of the fabric (which. Interesting how turned on Marcel already was. Louis took note). Louis ignored his eager dick, though in favor of feeling the contrast of smooth tummy and scratchy lacy.

“You are the prettiest thing I’ve seen in my life,” Louis whispered, his finger trailing down along the seam of Marcel’s groin. “I love you so much, baby.”

Marcel turned an even deeper shade of pink. “I love you too, Lou.”

They said it a lot, but it never grew old. The first time had been three months into dating. Louis had said it accidentally when they’d been kissing goodbye after a long weekend of Marcel camped out in his apartment. Marcel had cried and it had taken a while for him to be regain his composure so he could say it back.

From then, it had been a free-for-all. They said it in the big moments. Like when they decided to buy an apartment together in the city. Eventually they wanted to get a bigger place, but for now the extra bedroom served as Marcel’s lab and it was close to Louis’ office and had a great view of the sunset from their balcony.

They said it in the little moments, too, though. Like when Marcel brewed him a cup of coffee in the morning. Or when Louis picked up the kind of toothpaste Marcel liked over the other one. They said it when they’d vacationed at the beach and had bought melty ice cream cones and salt water taffy. They said it in bed on Sunday mornings, sleep worn and sated, tucked under heavy blankets. They said it in the clubs, when they were dancing, Louis’ ass pressed to Marcel’s groin, Marcel’s breath hot on Louis’ neck. They said it when they left Anne’s new house on Friday nights after family dinner.

And they’d said it one spring night, when the blossoms on the trees outside had just started to awaken from their winter nap.

“I want to marry you,” Louis had whispered into Marcel’s sweat-slicked skin. He smelled of citrus and soap and sex.

Marcel had rolled over, a dopey smile on his pretty face. “I want to marry you back.”

It had been too fast, too soon. But nothing had ever felt more right.

Louis had kissed him then. “So lets do it.”

“It won’t be…”

“I know,” Louis kissed the logical arguments from Marcel’s lips. “But it will be real. For us.”

So they’d whispered vows in the quiet of the night. It was almost better that way, because it was so intimately between the two of them. No one else heard the words that were just meant for each other.

“I promise to love and cherish you as you deserve to the very end of my days,” Louis had finished, peppering Marcel’s face with light pecks.

Marcel had giggled and repeated the words, reaching down to tangle their fingers together. “And at the very end of my days, when I become a ghost, I’ll love and cherish you even then.”

Louis had blinked hard, but had been unable to stop the tears. Marcel had whimpered a protest and tried to catch them before they fell. There wasn’t a way to put into words how much this meant to him, how overwhelmed and happy he felt, so he just said, “I love you.”

Now, Marcel brought his foot up to plant on the hard surface of the desk, spreading himself wide before Louis’ gaze, his cock cradled by black lace, his balls peeking through at the edges.

_I love you_ , Louis had said, and he thought it might have slipped out again with the way Marcel’s cheeks were pink and his cock twitched beneath his panties.

Marcel’s lashes fluttered and when he opened his eyes again Louis saw his whole entire world there, his entire future.

Then Marcel smirked and all thoughts promptly left Louis’  brain.

“Show me.”

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading <3 please know this is fiction and my love for some of the characters was put aside to further the plot. This fic post is [ here](http://briannamarguerite.tumblr.com/post/172345663292/the-case-of-the-definitely-not-haunted-styles), and be sure to come say hi!


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